The Sweetly Sung Queen
by Moon Witch '96
Summary: Sansa Stark closes her eyes for the last time in blazing fire of her own making… And opens her eyes in the cold, utterly beautiful and familiar place she thought forever lost. She cries out in a joyous, loud melody of redemption and second chances. The Coming of the Queen of the North, sweetly sung with a song of ice and fire upon her rose lips. AU. Time-Fic.
1. Fire

_**Fire**_

" _The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on **fire** ," Ferdinand Foch_

Sansa Stark understood, with dreadful certainty, from the battle camp overseeing the remains of the Wall, that all was loss.

It ended with the death-song of a creature of legend, and it ended with yet another death of someone precious to her. Jon and his dragon fall in a suicidal rush- a blaze of fire meeting ice- his attempt to _try_ to end it in one last action.

High Queen Daenerys had fallen just moments before, her great dragon roaring in a thunderous lament as a great lance of ice, wielded by the Night King pierced through both rider and dragon. It had been a horrific sight, watching as the ice spread through the small figure barely visible from such a distance. The Night King had aimed for the rider first, then through the Drogon himself. It had penetrated through both scales and flesh with sickening ease. Dark blood had rained upon the battlefield bellow, steaming, bubbling across wrights and humans alike. Even at such a distance, Sansa could see as the vivid black crawled up the enormous lance, as Drogon enormous body was further impaled with ice, as if the spear was a channel, spreading ice from within. The splendent, quiet Queen Sansa had come to know had fallen like a stone with her largest dragon- not beautiful nor graceful as the small young woman always appeared, but _ugly,_ a wretched thing that crashed amongst the hard ice and snow with a deadly crunch heard as far as the camp.

And she had watched as her first husband, had screamed in grief, before dashing forward in with the rest of their remaining armies at his back, his brother, haggard and golden, at his side, with Brienne, fierce, at his side. She had watched them go, numb, fear, eyes straining to look for her brother against the dark sky. It was difficult, to spot him in the dark, but she found him. And the white, stolen child from the Mother of Dragons had _roared_ in triumph, spewing icy death. And Jon, _oh Jon,_ had decided to give one last effort, one last rush of fire and blood _his blood,_ to try and give them all a chance. Ghost had _howled_ and followed at the heels of the armies, leaving her side for the first time in moons as Jon fell as horrifically simple as his Aunt before him.

 _Winter has come. And we were fools to not be ready. Our words are from not._

Sansa turned, hands shaking, almost ridiculously calm as Arya screamed in disbelieving grief. She rushed towards her tent, away from the doomed battle, away from the death of the last hope of humanity. People are screaming, rushing, fleeing, in the chaos of the craze certainty of what is the doom of the World, and Sansa found she cannot find it in herself to do much but turn her back.

She had already organized escape to old, the young and the unwilling to flee to White Harbor, to Essos, away from Westeros. She had done what she could have done for her people, and now she must do one more thing for the sake of any people that were left. The armies of humanity were to be destroyed in the wake of eight thousand years worth of the Dead, and it was her choice now to make sure the majority of the armies are not added to the Army of Ice. She reached her tent, kneeled by the heavy wooden chest that she had found in Castle Black, and brought out the small container of Wildfire she had hidden.

" _Just in case,"_ she had sworn to Tyrion, Ser Davos, Queen Daenerys and Jon( _King, her king_ ), " _Just in case the Dragons fall, then we will fall with them in a blaze that will give time to those South,"_

Jon as her brother( _cousin_ ) had _hated_ the plan, had hated it. But as King, he had understood and simply gripped her arm in understanding and praise.

Sansa stared at the container in her hands, it's innocent a mockery, the green murky liquid shimmering faintly in the torchlight. Her hands begin to tremble when rough, calloused hands touch her's. She looked up, to Arya, _her wild, beautiful sister,_ who had grown into her long face, her large ears, and stern, long nose _._ She had become a well-muscled if a lithe creature that was deadly and frightening. _Invisible and lost, allowed to run wild with no pack to tether her home._ Her not quite curls were sheared and close to her face, her grey eyes hooded with death and coolness gained from becoming a living, breathing weapon.

Sansa licked her lips at her stern face and the fact that she holds a torch in her other hand.

"Together?" her sister whispered and her voice is thick, rough with emotion and grief she does not bother to censor.

Sansa sucked in a shaking breath.

"Flee. Take the rest of the people and run them as far South as you can, this is my plan, my burden. I will wait until you are clear," she whispered back because she just _cannot lose_ anyone, and if her sister can live, if just a little longer, Sansa will be happy, "Run, Arya."

Her sister gave her a flat smile, her large gray eyes glittering with emotion.

"I'm done running, Sansa. The lone wolf dies. The pack stays together."

Unbidden, laughter escaped her throat, flat, ugly and hateful.

"I wish… I wish we had understood that all those years ago."

Because she hadn't. She had been a Summer child through and through, a pretty little bird chirping innocently when she should have been a wolf, a sweet singing _dove_ who wished for knights and songs. She should have had sharp teeth and claws ready, should have had the thought of _family, duty, and honor,_ instead of dreams of golden, green-eyed babes and a gallant golden King. _Her impossible, sweet dream that to this day haunted her with how much she had_ **wanted** _it, how much she had kept that dream in her heart, and how much it had_ **cost** _to have only the wish of the dream_.

"Together?" her sister, whispered, again.

Sansa can only nod because she can see now that Arya is much like her. Too tired to continue. Doubtful of any sort of survival should they attempt to leave now. Sansa feels her sister relax, slightly, and Sansa can only stand and hold her sister's hand. They stand together and go to the first Wildfire catches they had set about the camp. They grip their hands, clutched, tight, both trembling in the face of what is to come. She wondered if her biggest testaments of will are always done clasping onto the hand of someone else, and she knows this time, she will not live as she did when she and Theon had lept from the battlements at Winterfell.

"I love you," said Arya, quietly, hardly audible over the din of the scattering camp, "All I ever wanted was for you to love me back despite how different we were."

Sansa does not stop the tears then, at the whispered words of her little sister. _Because there is no one left to be strong for, no one left to hide from_.

"I love you too, Arya, I always did, I was just insanely jealous of everything you were, are. Beautiful, fierce and wild. A true Northern woman. Everything I couldn't be."

"Together?"

Sansa nods, transferring the small catch of wildfire to their hands. They grip it so delicately, so carefully. Arya holds her torch high, ready to throw it in tandem with the wildfire jar.

"Together."

They smash the jar onto the hidden cache on the ground, and with perfect grace, Arya throws the torch after it. They watch as the wild green flames, a beautiful combination of emerald and jade dancing together. It was frightfully rapid to consume everything. They fall together as they rarely did as children, arms tight and pressing them as close as they physically can. As they cling to each other, releasing the last of their hope of surviving this endless Winter, Arya and Sansa begin to cry.

"What do we say to the God of Death?" whispered Arya, soft, a small bit of the one and ten girl she had been before all of this had started, "Today."

" _I will not die in Ice, My King, My Queen. If the race of Men shall die because of the Others, it shall be in a blaze of_ **Fire** _of our own making," she spat, because no longer would she allow any thing or one to determine her fate._

 _Jon, sweet Jon, looked at her with furrowed brows and narrowed grey eyes. Sometimes it just_ **hurt** _so much to see how much he looked like her Father. And sometimes it hurt, even more, to confess to herself that she knew not whether or not she had forgotten the difference between her brother(_ **cousin** _)'s face and her father's. If time had taken the exact shape of his nose, the shade of his eyes from her, as it had taken_ **everything** _else._

" _Sansa-" said her first husband, reaching forward with small hands. To comfort, or to reprime, she does not know._

 _She can only smile at him, faintly, wondering at his kindness, his determination for_ **good** _despite the entire world being ready to mold him, and everything into greed and hate. Something in her expression is enough to stop him from touching her. And she is grateful he does not attempt it._

" _I know we cannot spare much of the Wildfire. But it may come to this, and I will not leave the rest of our people to become an added legion to the White Walkers."_

" _I am in favor of it," said the High Queen, sadness in her violet eyes. She is staring at Sansa with intensity, her eyes glistening with maybe tears,"We cannot rule out the thought that we will be overwhelmed. Fire is preferable to Ice, Aegon."_

 _Part of Sansa always flinched at the way Daenerys referred to Jon. It is not the name Jon used, and it was not what her father had called him. For Sansa it always seemed like a desperate attempt at a connection with her nephew on Dany's part. One that felt unneeded considering how much Jon returned her esteem._

 _Jon, oh Jon, sighed. A deep, terrible noise that is full of weight._

" _So be it."_

The fire reached her and Arya, and she cannot even bring herself to scream, and neither can Arya. They have died a thousand, small deaths in the too-short decade of the last of their lives. And Wildfire burned so hotly that all of their nerve ends blaze away before they can even form agony. It is all green, green, green, _wretchedly_ close to the color of Lannister's eyes and she can hardly stand it.

So, Sansa Stark closed her eyes for the last time in blazing fire of her own making.

* * *

 **EDIT: 19 January 2020**


	2. Ice

_**Ice**_

" _The noise resembles the roar of heavy, distant surf. Standing on the stirring **ice** one can imagine it is disturbed by the breathing and tossing of a mighty giant below," Ernest Shackleton._

Sansa Stark opened her eyes in the cold, utterly beautiful and familiar place she thought forever lost. It was not the physical place, exactly, but rather the people that made it _home_ that she wakes too.

She does not realize it at first, as all she can understand is that she is _breathing. Functionally able to bring air into her lungs and exhale it when the last thing I remember was the horribly brilliant dance of emerald and jade flames._ She loses herself in breathing first, unable to even register vision when all she can do is bring one breath after the other. She woke with a gasp, which stuttered into hacking and wheezing in her surprise. Her lips tremble with the effort, her chest _burned_ as she took breath after breath. Then, despite her trembling breath, she registers what is above her. It is both stone and wood, dark beams that cross above her in a rib-like pattern across the even darker stone. The beams, she knows with dead certainty, are made of Northern oaks: they are that distinct rich brown she had never found in Southern woods. The wood was ancient as well, and in true Northern design, they have not withered away to polished beams that blend seamlessly with the stone- the wood is alive with both the knots and whorls it had grown in life before it had been cut down. The traditional etchings of the language of the first men line the wood as a compliment, not a defiance of the life once held within the wood. She did not know the words well, but she recognized ' _child'_ and _'growth'_ amongst the rough wood. The stone was more precisely cut, the Mansory old, but ruthlessly symmetrical, and it took her a moment to recognize the stone as another Northern native, one mined for centuries to support and construct the majority of the Northern keeps, traditionally exported by some of the Mountain clans.

 _Where am I...?_ She bolts upward as tears start blurring her vision in her sudden panic, in a way that she has learned to usually conceal _-Something is not right._ But Sansa cannot _stop_ the sobs threatening to tear her apart. Her hands clutch at her chest, feeling desperately at her heaving body, at the thundering bolt of her heart. She wonders, for a second without understanding why she is in such a small room when the last she remembered was killing herself with her sister. _The Wild_ _Fire. The wildfire is... Where? Where?_ She settled her breath. She dried her tears and squashed her growing panic with more effort than she could ever remeber needing. It took her minutes to settle herself, and only when she forced herself to bend her head between her knees and shut her eyes shut for a moment. Because she needs to just _think_ and understand what in the seven hells and heavens is occurring, and what is causing her to blubber like a babe.

The bed she is in is large, she notes, clutching the material in her hands, trying to take in as many details as possible. It is large, a featherbed, and is lined with soft furs and even more softer wools. The furs are of white, possibly rabbit or fox fur, it is so soft. The wool is dyed blue, close to Tully blue. _All of this is expensive, fine to match the fact that I am in some sort of Castle, and noting of my Mother's House... Who would own such a thing?_ Possiblities whirl in Sansa's mind, and as her breath completely evens out she knows further exploring will give her the answers she needs.

Cautiously, she stiffly tumbled out of the enormous bed, with admittedly fine if unfamiliar furs and unfamiliar wools, spine stiff and hands clenched.

And Sansa completely stumbled at the sight of her much too _s_ _mall_ feet. Sansa breathed a shuddering breath, straightened her spine, and looked at her hands. _Too small… The hands… The hands of a child. But they- they must be **mine**._

Unease settled in her stomach, as she looked past her hands and sees her body. It is not what she knew was her's if fitting with the small hands and feet. The body that meets her sight in a sweat-soaked shift is thin and gangly form of a child. The limbs are long and her chest is flat, the belly soft with youth. Sansa forces herself to blink as if it will all fade as an illusion, before she realized, as she forced herself to touch her chest that this body is indeed the one she was controlling. She even wiggles her toes for good measure, but she cannot deny what her senses are telling her. _I am in the body of a child,_ she reached for her head, and receives a handful of lush, silky hair if tangled. She drags it forward and shudders as the bright flame of her hair meet her eyes. _That is still the same._

Sansa looks up, and it's by the glint in the early morning light, _dawn,_ that she sees the mirror on the wall. It was a plain sort of mirror; sliver frame, with leaping trouts and prancing wolves amongst the bramble of soft winter-vines. It is plain, if slightly large, and Sansa _knew that mirror._ It had been a luxury she faintly remembered begging and pleading for _months_ until her amused parents had granted. It had been a mirror she had adored, and a mirror she remembered had disappeared when she had returned to her rooms a few weeks after her father's execution. In its place had been a large, floor-length thing with prowling and roaring lions, golden frame with precisely cut red-colored glass, a luxury she had **_hated_ **for what it had represented. _I could not even reflect myself in the trappings of my House, I had to be the perfect Lannister woman to be._ It is within that mirror, that she realized that she was within her childhood bedroom in Winterfell, and as she looked into it she was indeed inhabiting her childhood body.

For the girl staring at her in the glass is not her anymore, not the woman she had become. No. The girl in the mirror is a babe, perhaps eight name days or as far as ten- Sansa has forgotten how she had looked at that age.

She has rounded cheeks, full of youth and prettily plump, and her eyes are large things that looked almost odd. Gone are the sharply shaped cheekbones of a woman, the shapely lips and the elegant tilt of her Tully blue eyes. She is so _small,_ not the tall proud woman, full of fierceness, not the Red-Wolf of Winterfell, not the Queen of the North. No, what is looking back at her is the dove, the little bird she had been. She blinked, wondering, for a moment, if she has gone mad with the coming of the Others and the Fire… And then she moved away from the glass, and quietly slipped out of her childhood room at Winterfell, and moves towards the room she had been occupying for nearly two years at this point. _This is a spell, or a dream. I must understand why I am so young and away from my proper place._

She threw the doors open carelessly and as much strength as she can muster, faintly annoyed as no guard stands outside the rooms. _I_ _will have words..._ She slammed the doors against the wall, a boom that echoed deep into the hallway. Two shapes callout in surprise from the bed, muttered oaths, a shirl shrike of surprise. They are tangled in the bedfurs and wools. Scramble in the enormous expanse, reaching for each other in a moment. And then the they move to leap out of bed, two adults, a man and woman judging by their cries. _P_ _eople in **my** bed_, she thought with cold fury, _H_ _ow **dare** they_. One of them, a large, hulking figure of a man, grabbed at a sword next to the bed. And unsheathed it in a fluid, practiced motion, charging for her in a second. It is an enormous thing, larger than her current body, the blade. She watched with slight detachment as it swung in her direction. It froze mere inches from her head, gleaming dark metal just a hair's breadth away from her delicate head.

She stared at the man, furrowed brow. Then she feels herself relaxing and understanding the fact that he had taken her bed. _But who is with him?_

"Sansa?" he said, bewildered and scolding.

For scaring him, or perhaps for appearing as she did. He hastily lowers the blade, chest heaving in panic and fright. She cannot blame him. She looked at him, his grey eyes, his frown and can only give a slightly furrowed brow in return.

"Jon… Jon something has happened to me," she told him, a little unnecessarily, after all, he has _eyes,_ "I don't-"

"Sansa, sweetling?" and that voice- that voice she had never heard again. _Oh, she had seen a poor imitation of it, a rasp and rattle of the Lady Stoneheart, but not… **Not** this._

The woman that comes around the man, Jon, is fair and rosy, with red hair nearly to her knees in an elegant wave of fire. _Kissed by fire,_ the Freefolk had called to Sansa, fondly, the Fire-Kissed, Red Wolf. The woman's hair is frightfully similair if a slightly paler shade. Her body is shapely, and for a brief moment, Sansa wondered if this is her mirror. The woman in front of her, dressed in a shift and hastily pulling a robe across her shoulders must be a distorted and softer version of her... Then reason wins out. Because the woman in front of her is older than her twenty name days, and there _is_ a softness in her that Sansa had never had. She has a more rounded face then her, freckles across her skin, rose in her cheeks to Sansa's devastating Stark pale, and her hair has a slight curl then Sansa had never had.

 _Mother._

She blinked and is horrified at the fact that tears have started to fall from her eyes again. She has yet to cry since Arya had come to the Northern Camp against the Others, grey eyes cool, blade in hand. And today she has cried more than three times. _First in death, then in a panic, now in affection._ _W_ _hat is **this**?_

"Sansa?"

"Mother," she said, voice high and impossibly hoarse at the same moment. Startled she can only gape at her before she looked to Jon, "Jon, Mother is back- she isn't Lady Stoneheart anymore… She's-"

"Sansa, stop addressing your father as such!"

Sansa paused at her mother's, her _mother's_ shouted words. a

And she looked at the man again.

 _A head, a head on a pike and she's crying and she feels such_ _ **rage.**_ _She moves forward, just a step, to push him to_ _ **kill**_ _him, when a looming figure of the Hound warns her, protects her in that one, small movement._ She stared at him, disbelief crawling in her throat. His brows are thicker, she noted, faintly, his eyes are a darker shade of grey than Jon's. His hair not as curly, but straighter, browner, and he is slightly shorter. But he _has to be Jon. He can only-_

"You are Jon."

The man blinked, brows furrowed.

"Sansa, I am Eddard Stark, your father," he said softly, a deep grumble of a voice. Not the soothing deepness of Jon. She does not really know this voice.

If she had, it had faded with the laughter of lions. With the passage of too much time not allowed to even think of her family. More tears find her, they slip past her eyes, down her cheeks and she _hates them. For they are weakness and they show a lamenting dove._

"But-But- He took your head. He made me watch as he thrust it through a spike. Made me _look_ at what had happened to you and then he laughed," she whispered.

Her _mother,_ let out a gasp of horror, while her _father_ blanched.

"Sweetling, you had a nightmare."

 _This is the most beautiful nightmare I've ever had._

She stands in her thin shift, a small coolness trickled down her spine. If this is a dream is what she thinks it is-

" ** _Robb_** ," she whispered, suddenly.

She can only run _._

Away from her, away from these people she had thought long lost. Her movement is abrupt, her small limbs feel stiff and unpracticed as she bolted away. And startled shouts follow her, but she can only ** _run._** She hiked up her sleeping shift to keep it away from her legs, uncaring of the unseemly sight. _Because if mother and father are here if I look as young as I am-_ She slammed into the doors that had lead to Robb's old rooms. He woke much as her parents had, with a startled shout, tumbled out bed. Sansa feels her chest heaving as bewildered blue eyes look at her. He is so _young._ Hardly three and ten name days and she feels something give at the innocent look in his eyes or his wild mop of red curls. _They had beheaded him,_ she thinks, _just like father. Only they had made a mockery of the Young Wolf by sewing Grey Wind to the remains of his neck. Joffrey had jeered and laughed about it. Promised to serve me them both at my wedding with Tyrion before he threatened to rape me._

"Sansa, what is the matter with you?" he cried, and his voice breaks, not the man she had left in her doom trip South, but a gangly youth.

More tears. But suddenly, they are mingled with laughter, both joyous and hysterical. Because if Robb is here-

" _ **Bran.**_ "

She ran further still, slipping just past her _father's_ reaching hands as she to the next room.

This one she rushed into with hands out, reaching, grabbing, dragging at the already awake boy lounging in his bed. She rushed the startled boy, reaching, _pleading_ that the stern, distant and mythical thing he became was gone from her younger brother. When he stands on his own feet, she gives more breathless laughter. His eyes are clear, innocent and no longer entrenched with knowledge beyond human understanding. Tears fall, blurring, freely as she moves away from the confused boy, but not before kissing him gently on the brow with more laughter on her tongue. Vibrating on her lips in a joyous, insane song.

" ** _Arya._** "

She is as free as the wind, a spirit of pulsing joy that gave her mobility and the means to slip beneath father's waiting arms. She does so by sliding right under his feet in an a striking movement that burns her pale flesh against the polished stone. _But she does not care._ The slide has her laughing all the more, fueling her wild joy even as shouts follow her. Arya is already awake, spread across the floor in her sleeping shift, of all things _playing. Like a child._ And Sansa _laughs and laughs,_ at the fact that Arya's hair is so long, or that her features are the awkward shape that she would grow into. Guileless, not cold, but innocent eyes stare at her. Sansa's chest is heaving, her eyes are prickling with unshed and shed tears, and laughter, both joyous and hysterical is bubbling in her throat.

Her sister, barely six namedays in form, stared, brows furrowed, clutching at a soft cloth toy of a wolf. It is so unlike the Arya Sansa knows, but it spoke of a younger, freer Arya that Sansa had _missed._

"What are you doing, stupid?" Arya said, suspiciously, a worried frown on her face. Her voice is high, a chime of bells and utterly _marvalous_ to Sansa.

She can only laugh in joy at the sight of her sister. Before sprinting away, towards the nursery. Rickon, little Rickon is there, barely three name days, _alive_ and she breathed another laugh for her Wild little Wolf before she is running again, past her _parents_ , screaming for Jon. Her _King._

"JON!" She bellowed, laughter and tears escaping her, _I never have to stop them ever again,_ "JON!"

A boy, just a _boy,_ appears at the end of the hallway, barely dressed in trousers, not her the form of her King, not the man that had taken Winterfell back for her. Not the King that had fallen down with his dragon in a blaze of glory and fire and blood. He is shirtless and so terribly _thin_ , barely gaining muscle and all but scareless, wild tossed curls black and looking half awake. She breathed, a soft joyous laugh escaping her again as she ran as fast as her short legs could take her. She slammed into the boy, so _young,_ so innocent, who grunts at her weight and is startled when her legs and arms wind around him. He barely kept his footing, barely suppressed a startled and filthy curse as he automatically moved to hold her up.

She only laughed at his clumsy movements. As he awkwardly started to pat on her shoulder, only focusing on the warmth of him _._ _Please, gods, old and new, please let this not be a dream._

"SANSA!" shrieked her mother.

Sansa only laughed again, because why _not?_ The tears flowing down her cheeks in a steady trickle. She kissed him, on the mouth, on the cheeks, on his forehead, on his nose, on his neck, any skin she can reach. Because _Jon is here and we are **all** here._

"Jon. JON! YOU IDIOT! " she screamed in righteous joy and marvel because she had watched him fall, but all of that is _behind_ them. She has been granted _heaven_ , and nothing matters anymore, "Look at us, home, again!"

The boy, oh the beautiful boy, just struggled with her weight, lifting her awkwardly by her thin thighs. She can only press herself closer, kiss after kiss on his brow, on his chin in her joy.

"S-s-sansa?" he asked, confused, and when she looked into his grey eyes…

She does not see what she expected. She saw nothing of what should be in those much too innocent grey eyes. Not the same warmth that she had gorged herself on after years of coldness, hate, lust, and dismissal. Not the small worship he gave to her for coming _back_ to him, to be the first of their siblings to reach him after years apart. Not the confidence of the man dead and risen again, not, her King.

She blinked, the joy in her chest deflating just slight.

"Snow, you put my daughter down right now!" and that is her lady mother, fierce, cold and disdainful.

Panic clawed at Sansa. She locked her ankles around Jon's waist, jumping to wind her arms around his hilariously scrawny neck, tighter, panic giving her strength. He gives a frightful wheeze, but Sansa can only hold on tighter. _Because this **is** Jon._

"NO!" she howled like the wolf she is. She bares her teeth and clings as her mother pulled on her arm, nearly sending them off balance. But Sansa cannot let go. She _will not,_ "You can't take him away from me! I watched him fall- I watched him _die. I watched him be_ _ **taken**_ _from me like everyone else. Give me this._ "

"Sansa, you had a nightmare-" her father, her _father_ pleads, and she stared at him, looked at him truly.

For he looked frightfully young. Barely two decades older than her age. His eyes are wide and staring at her in shock, in fear so potent she can feel it in her bones. His face is pale, his hands are reaching.

Sansa blinked again.

"No," she whispered back, tears falling down her cheeks, she does not think they will ever stop, not here in this beautiful confusing place, "No, father. You don't understand. This is the _dream._ My heaven. My family whole, their innocence returned. My blissful Summer days after my haunting Autumn and the dreadful Winter come to kill us all."

Her father stared at her, brows furrowed.

"Jon, son, put her down," said the man.

She growled, locking her ankles tighter. Jon, Jon gave a slight wince of discomfort, but she cannot help but cling. _Please, please let this be real and mine again._

"Has she gone mad?" and that's Arya, small, blinking at her with that curiosity that always had Sansa frowning and irritated, but she found to be glorious now. And Sansa cannot see anything of Invisible Wolf in her sister, as she blinked up at her and Jon, grey eyes wide and slightly afraid,"Did Sansa hit her head?"

"Father, what is going on?" Robb said, softly, frightened and wide-eyed as he came up behind her father's shoulder, the Young Wolf, she remembered, staring, "Should I fetch the Maester?"

She stared back, thighs clenched around Jon, and she realized her breath has gotten fast again, and she wondered what this really is… _I don't care. I don't care what this is, this is all I ever wanted in so long._

"Sansa, sweetling," Her mother pleaded, hands reaching out, face wild with fear, not with the eerie stillness of death and rotting flesh, an apparition that had come to them seeking justice and revenge, _Sansa had burned her herself in order to lay her Lady Mother to rest,_ "Let the boy go-"

"What the bleeding seven hells is all this racket!?"

Sansa gasped at the sight of Theon Greyjoy, whole, handsome but young as he came stumbling into the hallway.

He paused, no doubt at the odd sight of most of the Stark family disheveled and in their sleeping shifts, in the position of her, with Jon. The boy in front of her is not the broken wreck of a creature with no semblance of self or dignity. Not the half-broken man coming back to himself in small bursts, not the brave thing that had flung himself off the walls of Winterfell with determination and self-loathing and regret with her in order to _save_ her.

She stared. And stared.

"Begging your pardon, Lady Stark, Lord Stark," he stutters, realizing that they are present, blanching slightly.

"Sansa has gone mad!" Arya pipped up, again, going over to tug impatiently at Theon's sleeve.

Unbidden, delighted laughter leaves her, for the Invisible Wolf had been quiet and calculating. Not outspoken and blurting.

"Sansa, if you… If you are unwilling to part from Jon?" started her father, at her sharp nod, he continued, "Than will you both come to my solar? Sansa… You can further explain-"

"Only Mother and you and Jon?" she whispered, and its because if she spoke any louder she feared she will only laugh or cry and cry or laugh. _I can barely do more than that at the moment._

Her heart, she realized, is beating, rapidly as her mother ushered everyone to bed or to go dress. Quietly, Sansa still in Jon's arms is ushered towards the familiar path of the Queen of Winterfell's solar. The hallways are familiar, yet not. For it is the Winterfell she had known before- the one she still had dreams of- the one before King Robert had come calling for her father's service as his Hand. It is ancient and hallowed, whole and untouched by fire. Or forever stained with the blood of those foolish enough to arouse Ramsey's attention. It is clean, dark stone adorned by unbroken windows, old wall hangings destroyed in Theon's foolish play of manhood line the walls. Her mother followed behind them, face carved into worry and dislike as Sansa clung. In the room, Sansa realized she cannot cling to Jon forever, much as she wanted to. The boy had struggled with her weight, and his face was red with effort and so utterly _confused. What a fool I'd been to him. How did I ever look away from him?_ She slipped down him, realizing with a jolt that he is still so much taller than her, more than a foot, and she frowned as she missed the fact that her head had reached his chin, within distance to always reach down and press a kiss to her temple. Now, he would have to bend down to kiss her brow as was his habit Eyes, grey, innocent and worried, so utterly bewildered, staring at her. Searching for something in her features she cannot name.

 _Summer boy. I can see the summer snow and gentleness of innocence within those grey eyes._

She blinked, slowly, before she frowned.

"Jon," she said, firmly, and her heart clenched at the fact that he flinches, "I love _you_ , dearly."

Wild, confused eyes stare at her with hunger and hope. She reached, hand tangling with his, calloused and rough and already dwarfing her hand.

"I- I love you as well Sansa," his voice is hesitant but warm.

And despite the indifference she had always shown him, that is true. _He loves her back._ Sansa smiles, wide, and reached on her tiptoes to kiss both cheeks, before she turned to her father. He was sitting in her chair. _No, not my chair. He is the lord. This is the Lord's solar. Not the Queen in the North' is not my place to dwell in now._ Her mother, frowning, eyes narrowed at the display, no doubt, stared at her with disbelief. Both of her parents are.

Her paragons and invincible figures of her Summer days. Dead and mutilated in her horror-filled Autumn. Grief for them rose in her, and she wondered, with dawning realization if this is no dream.

 _They do not remember. In my heaven, they would remember so they could forgive a Summer Child's foolish mistakes._

"Sansa," began her father, the Quiet Wolf, she thinks, remembering his moniker distinctly, his voice steady, deep and his face still, "Will you please tell us what has caused you behave… To behave so strangely?"

"Father, Mother… What year is it?" she asked instead of answering. _Because I **must** know._

Her parents exchanged glances, brows furrowed. Her father turns to her, and he frowns.

"The year is 295," he answered, slowly, voice calm and soothing.

Sansa gave a bark of laughter, hand coming to her lips in surprise. Then, she wobbled to a nearby chair, dragging Jon with her, and he stood awkwardly next to her. She stared at their intertwined hands. At the uncalloused and pale, useless hands that only know how to sew. And the slightly tanner hands that are already strong and ready to fight.

 _I… This is not a dream._

She breathed, deeply, feeling the air in her lungs and in her chest, her rapidly beating heart. She closes her eyes. Relished the feel of Jon's hand in her's.

 _Life. Not green wildfire. I_ _am alive. Everyone… Is alive. Three years before everything was lost._

"Father… Mother… Jon. I closed my eyes in the year 305 in a fire of my own making," she grinned, savagely, not a sweet girl of ten name days, not a child of Summer, but rather the Queen in the North, The Red Wolf, as she opened her eyes. She who had been broken down by cruel Winds of Autumn and reforged in the Ice of Winter, " _ **The North Remembers**_."

* * *

 **EDIT: 20 January 2020**


	3. Wind

_**Wind**_

" _Yes, you can lose somebody overnight, yes, your whole life can be turned upside down. Life is short. It can come and go like a feather in the wind,"_

 _Shania Twain  
_

Eddard Stark, Ned, can only stare, as his eldest daughter, arguably his most beautiful and innocent child, with her love of songs and knights, of pretty court dreams, of Summer filled days South, stares at him. Her face is as it always is, a miniature of Cat touched with Northern, red-haired, long and in a disarray as he had not seen it in many years, skin pale as snow, round with youth and beauty. But her back. Her back is straight, not the attempt of a child in perfect posture or practice of a Lady, but in confidence, in _defiance_ over something he cannot name. And her eyes. Her _eyes._ Her eyes, blue and normally as soft as Summer skies, are hard, _gleaming_ with a darkness that he sometimes sees in the eyes of men that have seen war. In his own eyes when he looks into a mirror.

They are a stark contrast to Jon's eyes- _promise me, Ned-_ wide, round with youth and though slightly shadowed, are not the coldness and grief and pain of someone who has seen too much. _She has just had a nightmare,_ he tells himself. His babe has had a nightmare. But her eyes, her eyes tell a different story then his mind can tell him. Something cool pools down his spine, unease, and fear for his daughter.

"Sansa-" and that is Cat, mouth agape, eyes wide.

But Sansa is not finished. She raises her hand, a still, graceful gesture of command. Automatically, no matter how comical it may seem coming from a girl of ten name days, Cat stops speaking, more stunned than anything at the gesture. Sansa stands, graceful movements as she guides Jon into her vacant chair. It's a tender gesture, one that Sansa has stopped displaying with any of her siblings, so intent on decorum and proper behavior of a Lady. Her hand lingers on Jon's arm, and Jon is so _confused_ at the inclusion from his most distant sister, as is Ned. He is not blind at the stilted indifference she had begun to display towards Jon for the last few years, approved by his wife, nor the hurt in Jon's gaze as he looked after her. The girl is smiling, no, she is _smirking_ in a savage glee that is almost… Dark. It is disturbing to see on one so young.

"Father, Mother, Jon" she speaks, and she seems to relish those titles, seemingly savoring the names on her tongue with a gentler glee than before. She almost sings the names, pronouncing each syllable with a reverence that has him blinking, "Please. Believe me. I… I have lived the next ten years already. I have… I have been graced. By the gods or something else, I cannot say. But I have lived until my twentieth name day, and I died… Only to awaken in my old bed today."

 _Perhaps she did hit her head._

"Sansa, how can we believe you?" he says, quietly, furrowed brows.

The girl's eyes dart to Jon before she looks back to him.

"Father. I know things. Things about both of you that I the child that went to bed last night did not know."

Her eyes flicker to Jon once again. More cold seeps into his spine, and he straightens sharply.

 _Promise me, Ned._

"Oh," and Cat speaks, soft and worried, "Sansa what could you possibly-"

"I know who Jon's mother is."

 _No. Let it all be a lie. Let it all be that Sansa simply has had a bad dream._

His wife straightens, as does Jon, eyes wide as his wife's eyes narrow. Sansa only looks at him, steadily, sure, and that dark savage glee disappearing. She only looks sorrowful, a painful thing to see in a child that young.

"Father," she says, and her voice softens, gentles in a soft reverent tone that he has only heard her use to speak of knights and songs, "You promised to protect her son when she laid dying. You swore to her because you _loved_ her so much, that you have done what no one thought you can ever do. You _lied._ "

She knew.

 _Impossible. No one can know, no one-_

"Promise me, Ned," she whispered, his daughter, and it was an echo of his sister.

 _Blood and blue roses._ Blood red hair and blue eyes stare at him, eyes of his eldest daughter, they are not _innocent._ They are worn and used, so impossible sorrowful.

He stands, suddenly, turning violently around, tears stinging in his eyes. Cat only falls limp, against his desk, as a high keening sound of grief escape him.

"You cannot know this," he gasps, bracing himself against the mantle of the fireplace.

"No. No, I cannot. Unless what I have said is true. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, dead in the year 305, revived in my body in this year of 295. Please, father, believe me."

He turns again, chest heaving, as he stares at his daughter. He cannot say a word.

"Sansa… I- Say it," and Cat hisses, her voice hoarse fierce, "Tell me that woman's name."

Sansa looks at him, brows furrowed before she looks to Jon. She touches the boy's face. Gentle, small digits caress a soft platonic gesture. She reaches downward and clasped his hand.

"Only if Jon wishes for you to know, Mother," she says, calmly.

"Do not tell him!" he pleads her begs his eldest daughter because he _promised._ And he will not risk anyone else's life, nevermind that his eldest daughter seems to know the darkest, deepest secret in him,"No one can know Sansa-"

Hard eyes flash, and she moves away from Jon, storming to Ned, that small, lithe child of ten name days, holding herself tall and she pushes him, as hard as she seemingly can. It is not a hard push, as she is such a thin, reedy child, but the action stuns him all the same, sends him tumbling to the ground.

"You _died_ without telling him," she hisses, and those hard Tully eyes gleam with rage and sorrow as she looms over him,"You died without telling him or anyone. You died at the hands of a madman in front of me. I saw your head roll. I saw them force it upon a pike, as that madman cackled and jeered and made me _watch._ Eddard Stark, Quiet Wolf, you cannot leave Jon to not know the truth of himself. Of his _parents_ because you have done it before and no good came of it. He ran off to the Wall and _left_ his family. The lone wolf dies."

"Sansa have you completely lost your mind?!" screams Cat, straightening from the desk.

His eldest daughter turns, a _queenly_ grace he realizes, dazed, as she looks at him. Lips pull back, gleam white and for a moment he swears his most graceful child snarls like the direwolf upon their sigil.

"Catelyn Stark of House Tully. You doomed us all. With your brashness and impulse, you threw the Kingdom into a civil war that _ravaged_ the lands. And all because you trusted the wrong man… That man took me. Molded me. I thought he was saving me, helping me escape from being a hostage. But he was just another jailer. Who touched me, kissed me and would have raped me if it was not better for himself to sell me off to a man who _did. Who destroyed me and made me small and into pieces._ "

"Sansa," whispers Jon, pale, eyes wide, and the girl stills, wide-eyed as she stares at the boy.

"Jon, oh Jon, I'm so sorry," she whispers, and her face crumples, her eyes, already red-rimmed, shine with tears, "You are innocent and young. I should not speak of this in front of you, sweetling."

She breathes, deeply, dabbing at her eyes with hurried fingertips, before she looks at Ned. She holds out a hand.

"Father."

He stares at her and takes her small hand. Smooth, soft and uncalloused. She heaves him up with a lot of effort, even as he does the most work.

"Sansa… Say the name," he whispers, soft, hesitant, but as he looks at that small face, he realizes that what she says could… Could be true, "Say her name and I will believe you. In _everything._ "

If she could just say the name then he would know for sure. She breathes, deeply, chest still heaving, as is his. She squeezes his hand, looking up at him. Tully eyes soften. Hardened face of someone who has lead others relax, and it turns into a mummers show of youth and the daughter that had gone to bed the night before. She looks at Jon. Who eye's flicker to Cat before he gives a hesitant nod.

"Lyanna," she says, clearly, and something in Ned _howls_ , "Jon. Your mother was my Aunt, Princess Lyanna Stark who married Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in a handfasting ceremony after he annulled his marriage to Elia Martell. They… Loved each other. So much. And it cost them everything. As she laid dying, your mother made her brother swear to protect her son, Aegon Targaryen at all costs from Robert Baratheon. Father swore it. He took you as his own, called you Jon Snow to protect you from the fury of a man that smiled at the death of your half-siblings."

Jon falls back, into the chair. He goes paler still. And Cat. Oh his Cat, stares at him, mouth open.

"Ned," she whispers, voice hoarse.

Her eyes are wide, with the implications. At the realization that the shadow woman she has hated for so long is not a woman he had been so in love with.

"I did not know you," he tells her, truthfully, "When I came back with Jon. All I knew was that you were meant for Brandon. And when I grew to love you, I could not doom you with the knowledge if it ever came to light. I was content with being branded a traitor if only you didn't fall with me."

Tears fall from his wife's eyes.

"But… I would have kept the secret Ned, you have bid me to be cruel and hate a child so dishonorably because of your 'protection'! _Family, duty, honor_!"

"Cat… Cat I am so sorry. Your disdain was his armor. His shield. I promised my sister on her deathbed to protect him at all cost."

"From Robert! Not from _me_!"

"Enough," and that is Sansa, sharp, and though her voice is high with youth, something in it makes them stop.

She walks, natural as can be, to Ned's chair. She sits and looks at all three of them. Cat and Ned, with their heaving chests and red faces, to Jon, who, Ned realizes with a start is wide-eyed and completely too quiet.

"Sit. Now."

They sit, Cat makes sure to be as far away from Ned as she can. Sansa shifts and he realizes that she looks all too comfortable at the head of the table of the Solar of Winterfell. Coldness seeps in his spine at the implications, because Robb, Bran, and even little Rickon are in front of her in the line of succession.

"I am sorry," she began, quietly, but there is command, grace, and authority in her voice, "I have come to you all from horrible times. I have taken your Summer life and blew it away like sand in the wind. For nearly all of my adult life I have lived in harrowing times, and I died because of it."

She looks at them, eyes focused, fierce.

"We all made mistakes. All of us. Father, Mother, Jon, and the Stark family suffered because of it. The pack scattered. And we all died for it," she started, voice high, still so impossibly sweet in her youth, but harder, darker in sorrow and what Ned realizes is true unrelenting _grief_.

Tears fall again, from her eyes, as she speaks in that soft, but firm voice.

"You, father, you were killed, the Quiet Wolf _silenced_. You mother you- were killed*. And Robb died with you, the Young Wolf, in his prime, first King of the North in _centuries_ was cut down by destroyed Guest Rights… Bran, Bran became something so… Other. Inhuman with his connections to the Old Gods. Lost to us, the Seeing Wolf… Was not Bran anymore. Arya… Arya disappeared, into nothing, and came back harder, colder, an assassin, the Invisible Wolf. Rickon, my Wild Wolf died beyond the Wall. And Jon."

She looks directly at Jon, mouth softening, eyes as well. Summer skies return to Tully blue.

"You... You were the second King of the North. The Wolf Risen again. I was a prisoner for nearly five years and was used so horribly before I broke free and came back to _you._ And you… You helped me. Gave me the title of Queen and we took back the lost Winterfell, I am the Red Wolf because of you, I would become Queen of the North, under High King Aegon and High Queen Daenerys*."

Ned's worst fears are confirmed, and he feels disbelief at the fate of his children and wife. Cat, Robb and Rickon dead, Bran and Arya lost. And Sansa, he could tell, was changed beyond anything. A Queen looks at him from behind a child's face, and it sends _shivers_ down Ned's spine.

"How… How did it all end?" he whispers, and he is the only one who seems to be able to speak, "If you were Queen, how did you die?"

Sansa looked to him.

"Winter came. The Others, they came back after eight thousand years. Jon died fighting them. Arya and I- Arya and I, well, we… We burned. We took Wildfire and burned the last of the Northern survivors who could not fight as our army came back to us as Wrights or fleeing them. I took Fire over the death of Ice."

"Madness," whispers Cat, desperate, she turns to Ned, "My love, please, please tell me you cannot believe her. Please."

He looks to Sansa, _Queen of the North, Red Wolf,_ sitting so regal, but so impossibly small in her young body.

"Cat. She knew of Lyanna. And only two people in this world knew of it until today."

"Ned, please-"

"Mother… Petyr Baelish of the Fingers. He fought Brandon Stark for you. And the first Wild Wolf nearly killed him if not for you asking him to spare Petyr."

Cat stares, as that was something that was not common knowledge, seven hells, Ned had not known until Sansa had been born.

"You used to go swimming, naked, with Aunt Lysa," a distinct look comes to his daughter's eyes, "It was your secret, a pack between sisters to be scandalous and alone. But Petyr was always watching, always looking to you."

Cat flushes, then she blanches.

"What? How do you know that? How?"

"Petyr told me. He was quite drunk. He told me how he always wished you had asked him instead before he begged me to swim with him."

Understanding dawned on him, as it did to Cat.

"He… He's the man I trusted who caused my…Death? The man who wanted to rape you? Petyr, little Petyr?!"

A grim smile, that darkness he had seen comes back in full force.

"Oh, mother, he did not want to rape _me_. He has always wanted you. When you… Died, I was all that was left. We look so much alike, after all."

Silence came to them, and Sansa looked to Jon, her face softening.

"Jon," she says, and the boy jerks,"Go. You have learned much. Too much, in such a short time… And… Promise me, you will tell no one of what was spoken today."

His son, for he is his son, looks at his eldest daughter, dazed.

"But Robb-"

"Promise me, Jon. Robb will know in due time, he is the heir of Winterfell. But for now, it is between us three."

Ned winces.

"I-I- promise, Sansa."

Sansa smiles, sadly.

"Go, my brother."

The boy blanches again, before he nods, gives Ned one last look before he flees. Ned looks at Sansa, and she sighs.

"I have burdened him with too much. He is no longer my King," she whispers, looking to her hands in a nervous gesture that Ned recognized.

 _Some of my daughter remained, somewhere beneath this Queen, this hard woman is the girl that went to bed last night. I have not lost my Sansa._

Relief, beyond belief, hits him, despite all the implications of everything that has come to him this morning.

"Sansa… You needed him," says Cat and her voice is distant, in shock, "He… He saved you?"

Sansa looks up at his wife.

"Oh mother, he didn't just save me. He gave me _everything_ when I thought I would never have anything again. He took this broken thing, piece by piece, and raised her up to be a _queen,_ joint Queen of the North until he became High King with his Aunt. But… Jon is not that man. Not my King. And if I have anything to say of it, he will never become the man that gave me my crown ever. Not as I draw breath."

Ned sucked in a breath.

"What do you mean?"

Sansa smiles, savage and knowing.

"Winter is Coming, father, and this time, this time the Starks will rise together instead of scattering upon the wind. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the Lone Wolf dies, but the Pack _survives._ "

Ned looks at her, at his daughter, changed overnight, at those haunting Tully eyes that of a queen behind that young face. Those words… The words that were impossible for her to know.

 _The Summer child who loved songs and knights is gone. But… But she is still my Sansa._

"What must we do?"

* * *

 **1*: I do think Sansa could not bring herself to tell her mother what happened to her. She may be a harder person, but that innocent and kind girl is still in there somewhere. And Lady Stoneheart is disturbing, and its a pity they didn't put it in the show. I can only assume that they were both saving time and avoiding the more fantastical bits of the books... Or maybe they were trying to avoid a different type of zombie? 'Cause ice zombies is enough I guess.**

 **2*: ... I know Dany wouldn't really share the title, but I tweaked it a little bit that Jon asked for Northern sovereignty to be recognized, cause, Dany doesn't even have the rest of Westeros and decided to just throw all of her will into the fight against the Others. At the end, of course, the titles were meaningless, but I believe they are important symbolically, which is why I had Sansa gain the title of Queen in the first place... *Cough cough hint because I have the head-canon that if Sansa is the Queen in Cersei's prophecy that it would be _delicious_ karma-wise.***


	4. Snow

_**Snow**_

" _You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow,"_

 _Amy Lowell._

Jon knows nothing.

 _That_ is the only truth he knows now, as he sits before the tomb of Lyanna Stark. _His mother. Princess married willingly to Prince Rhaegar. Even history is wrong, a willing captive. A secret marriage gone horribly wrong..._ It is not as warm, here, in this enormous, cavernous place as it is in the Keep proper, but warm enough that his breath wasn't visible. Beyond that his is a child of the North, it would have to severally cold for it to bother him terribly. This was nothing. This was normal, even pleasant...He huddles in his cloak, regretting the fact that he had not bothered to dress beyond his cloak and boots, not even bothering with a tunic nor simple shirt. It wasn't terribly cold nor freezing, but he still felt a coolness along his skin, huddled in his cloak, wrapping it tightly around him.

The Crypt of Winterfell is a quiet, cool place, hallow and his breathing, the only noise he hears, echoes loudly against the vaulted ceiling, against the far away stone wonders why Arya loves to play here, amongst the old Kings of the North, stone faces pale, watching, direwolves curled at their feet in an awareness. Faces snarling, aggressive and unwelcoming. It felt as if a thousand eyes were upon him, those icy eyes of Kings past, his ancestors placing judgment on the present. He felt uneasy... Unwanted here now. Perhaps it is because he is a dragon, not a wolf, that they stare so disapprovingly, so unhappily. Torrhen Stark may have taken the knee to Dragons and he was of that family, but before him were Kings that had fought fiercely against everything that had come for them. The Kings and Lords of the First Men and the Andals.

He feels small, amongst Lords, Kings, and ghosts.

Before, he never spent much time in this place, for he had no reason to, never having known any of the people his fath- Uncle had buried here. He had mourned without knowing, his Uncle, Grandfather, what he thought to be his Aunt certainly, but... Not keenly. Not with knowledge and true grief. They were memories of his fath- Uncle. Distant, sweet things that sometimes seemed to weigh the Lord of Winterfell down. The young woman's grave in front of him is a pretty, fine thing. Finely made. Lovingly made. Strange, as she is one of the few female statues, a strange thing for his fath- _Uncle_ , to have done for his sister. A gesture usually only made for Kings and the Lords of the past. But it was a gesture of true love, perhaps a brief, cryptic nod of what she had been before she had died in the Tower of Joy. A Princess, of the entire Seven Kingdom, perhaps even Queen had she and the Rhaegar had lived.

He looks up at that carved woman, beautiful and still, but inhuman grace. If he were to see the women carved in stone before him, he would not be able to recognize her. For this is a pale imitation And she looked so young, frightfully young amongst the bearded faces of Lords and Kings. She was only four name days older than him. Barely a woman, if that, old enough to have him and die because of it, but not much older. He will never know her face, nor his true father's. That _hurts_ more than anything, the knowledge that Eddard Stark is not his father.

That his entire life is a mummer's farce.

He had not been entirely content with his life as the Snow of Winterfell, the one blight in Eddard Stark's honor, but he would do anything to remove the knowledge from his mind. To be that bastard again, for it made him insignificant, an unimportant note of a great House. But he was the son of a prince, the grandson of Kings, _the Mad King's grandson._ His mere existence called Eddard Stark a traitor, endangered his family to be labeled the same. And the rest! Madness is what he can think to rationally explain Sansa's wild tale of being of the future. But… But Sansa had never _looked_ at him like that, looked at him at all once she understood the meaning of the name Snow, of the word bastard. Never looked at him with so much esteem and _love,_ since she had been but a babe toddling after him and Robb and Theon.

He looks at the still face of his _mother_ dead, because of him, due to his birth. And wonders if Lord Stark, as his Uncle, protected him for his own sake, not just for the promise he said to his late… Mother. If he was worth any of this.

 _Can I dream of the wall with the knowledge of who my mother and father is? With… What Sansa said came of me leaving?_

"I had a feeling… That you would be here," says a soft, voice, and he turns, rapidly.

 _Sansa._

The little Lady of Winterfell, the most Southern in attitude* of all the Stark children. She was… Different, it was the best way to describe it. She was looking at him with warm, loving eyes when before they had been narrowed with childish unease and dislike. She is now dressed, in a dark, drab dress that does not match her recent wardrobe of silks and lush fur that she had demanded a few name days past. It fits her very illy, hanging too short, just above her ankles, and too taunt across her broadening hips and shoulders. But she looked comfortable, despite this, with a great fur cloak( _her_ _father's_ ) draped across her shoulders, grey and dwarfing her ridiculously. Her hair, a tumble of red fire, is bound in the simplest braid he has seen in a long time, only one, draped across her shoulders. A spark of color, amongst the dark. She smiles, and holds out food, tray, piping hot soup and what looks like hot cider, bread, and, he sees with humor, lemon cakes and it makes his stomach growl.

"I-"

"I came here often, after… He told me of it," she says coming to sit next to him. She cares not of dirt or dust upon the floor, pays no mind to it at all as she leans against him, pushing the tray into his lap. The Sansa he knew would wrinkle her small nose, and whine about what the dirt would do to her dress, and how a Lady does not sit on the ground, but this Sansa is not moved or is uncaring of it. She is also a warm against him, firm and unbothered in the gesture of affection, just like Arya would be, "For it was proof of what I had come to learned. The most beautiful songs are based on horrible tragedy."

Old eyes look at him, from behind his sweet sis- cousin's face.

"Did I come? The… Other Jon?" he whispers, wondering.

Sansa nods him, smiling softly.

"When he could, he was very busy. I made flowers once, out of cloth because we could not spare space in the glass gardens after a point. Roses, out of a childhood dress of mine. He asked them to be blue..."

Her eyes drift. Far away. Unfocused and seeing something he cannot.

"Sansa, I can't be sure if I can believe you," he whispered to her, "What you spoke of- It is too incredible. Madness." _  
_

She looks at him, tired eyes.

"I understand. I must seem mad. But ask me anything, and I guaranteed to know it… The Other Jon and I spent hours just… Talking. I'm sure I know you better than you would expect from… Me."

"What do you mean about that?"

She raises a single, fine brow, and that looks much more like his most distant sister. Proud, proper and elegant as she tried so hard to strive for. But now it seemed to come so naturally, not the fumbles of a girl of ten, charming and with merit, but ill practiced. Now they are natural and easy to her.

"I have treated you horribly, Jon. Distanced myself from you the second I learned what it meant to have someone named Snow in the family," she said voice soft and regretful, "But when I needed you most, it did not matter to you. We are brother and sister, and I will never abandon you ever again."

Jon felt the fool for the heat in his eyes, at the ardent way she was looking at him.

"But we are not. Eddard Stark isn't even my father. We're… Kin, yes, but not brother and sister."

She smiled, hand, so small, touching his cheek.

"It doesn't matter. We grew up together. Your blood is my blood. We are Starks. And as Starks, we stay together."

He felt more heat, a trail of tears slipping past his resolve.

"I- You. I am not that Jon. The Jon that you love so much," he said, desperate to understand.

"No. No… That Jon is forever lost to me. But you," her other hand raises, to his other cheek. Her hands were warm, a blaze against his skin, "But you are still my brother. The boy who snuck me lemon cakes from the kitchens at odd hours when I had nightmares, the boy that played dolls with me even as Robb laughed at you. The boy that cried when Arya was born."

"I didn't cry," he muttered, automatically.

Sansa grins.

"You cried. She was the first Stark to have grey eyes like you and father."

"You were so young when she was born-"

"I don't remember. The other Jon told me of it."

He looks at her and then sighs. He shrugs uncomfortably away from her grip, and she lets her hands drop neatly to her lap. She was touching him so much now, without hesitation or disgust at the 'living sin'.

 _But I suppose I'm not that. She said Rhaegar and Lyanna were married._

"Tell me something that Sansa could not possibly know?"

She looked down at her hands, wringing the fingertips together before she looked back to him.

"Eat. Drink, and I will tell you of things."

Jon looked at the trey before he picked up the spoon and slowly began to eat. The soup was good, of course, as was the cider, and the bread. She had brought him some of the nicest things served, not rare for him to eat, but the fact that she had brought him his favorite soup, one made of chicken and kernels of corn, made him wonder if she asked them to be made. Even the bread was perfectly buttered and toasted to a near char, as he liked it.

"Hmm. You sneak Arya out at night, teach her archery. You let her use your younger practice bows."

He pauses, spoon midway to his mouth. She wiggles her brow, a sly grin on her face, and gestures to the spoon. He eats.

"You could have spotted us," he said, utterly reasonable.

She looks at her hands again.

"When you were two and ten, Theon made you go to the brothel out in Wintertown."

Jon freezes. He looks to his sister, flushing bright red, all the way to the roots of his hair. His cousin only smiles, faintly.

"Of course Robb, you and Theon were kicked out for being uppity lordlings much too young to deal with whores, coin or no."

"No one knows of that."

She inclines her head.

"Are you not ashamed of me?"

Sansa blinks.

"Why would I be?"

"For going into a brothel!"

Sansa laughs.

"Once upon a time, a whore was my greatest ally*," she said sadly, "I care not what people do with their lives or bodies, Jon. The finest people in the Seven Kingdoms, with the finest breeding and noble past times, have committed atrocities. While the lowest of the low did wonderful things..."

Sansa looks at him, and again, Jon is struck with who old the look in her eyes was. It was hard to see because she was so young, but something about the way those large blue eyes looked sent shivers of unease down his spine.

"Finish your soup at least, Jon. You haven't eaten anything all day."

He looks down at his soup, and downs it quickly, before bringing the bread up to his mouth. He chewed quietly, before he placed it down, and sipped at the hot cider, which was sweet, with extra cinnamon as he liked it. He made a show of eating his bread as well before he looked on at the two lemon cakes. He grabs one and offers it to his sister, who accepts it with a brilliant smile.

"And how did you get those?" he asks.

"The cooks always have them for me, I have found out. Of course, I nearly had them scrambling when I came into the kitchen. I haven't done that since I was very young, apparently, Gods! I'd forgotten what they tasted like. Lemons were put to better use, of course, during Winter. Excellent vitamins..."

She ate the cake slowly, seemingly savoring every little bite. It was a stark difference to Sansa he remembered, as lemon cakes were the only thing he ever saw her devour like a child, quickly, messily and with a soft joy. He remembers when he saw the icing on her face, the jellied lemon's sugar on her lips, that the little girl that toddled behind him and Robb was still there. He blinked at the difference and frowned at his own cake before he started to eat it. He passed the cider to her, wordlessly, when she had finished the cake, and she drank, without hesitation, the girl who would so regularly wrinkle her nose when he passed her so much as napkin during meal times.

"You… You really aren't the Sansa I know."

The girl blinks before her head whipped up, and those old eyes widen.

"I-"

"You're so different."

She nods, sadly, a soft smile on her face.

"Yes. I had to be."

"Do… Do you miss being who you were? The Sansa that I knew?"

She looks at her hands.

"Yes. I wish… I wished so long to come back to who I had been before my innocence was killed from me. But I… I also appreciate what I've become."

Her eyes look far away. Distant. Still.

"Where was Robb? You said you were hostage for five years. But he was King in the North, surely-"

"He had a war to win, and I was just one person. One person in face of the North and the Riverlands. And then Robb was dead," her voice was flat.

"I- _He_ should have broken my Night's Vows and gone for you!"

Sansa looks at him. Understanding dawning, she only sighs. Her face is still, even and does not so much as twitch.

"He would've died trying. I was hostage in King's Landing, Jon. No one could save me there."

"Why don't you blame them?!" he screamed, standing abruptly, the trey and the rest of the bowl, as well as the last of the hot cider fell to the ground. Tears came to his eyes again, but they were fueled by anger, not affection or acceptance, "For what was done to you! You- you were r-rap-"

They fell, drop by drop, as he was unable to finish his sentence. Sansa sighed, standing, dusting her ill-fitting skirt. She looked at him, face still maddening even. Why did it not crumble, as before in the Solar? Why did she look so composed?

"I did. Sometimes. When they were beating me for every victory that Robb won from the army of the Realm."

Jon flinches, horrified.

"When they touched me for being a pretty little thing when _he_ forced himself into me. I hated everything and everyone for not coming for me," she said with strength, with a darkness that made Jon reel back, "I dreamed of it, of being a tragic girl in a song, rescued by a Knight, by her King brother. Either of them. But life is not a Song. I saved myself, Jon. And sometimes that is the most important thing. No one came for me, at least not in time. But I saved _myself._ "

He looks at her, at her heaving chest, at her flushed face, at the tears she holds back. Uncaring, but slightly hesitating, half expecting rejection, Jon launches himself at Sansa, bringing his arms around her. She does not hold the same hesitation and holds him back. She is so _small,_ his sister. He can feel the delicateness of her thin limbs, of her frail shoulders, and his stomach turns at the thought of anyone touching her illy. She was always the most sensitive of all of them, crying in frustration or unease, and someone was willing to take that person and break them apart… And in a way, they already had.

"See?" she whispers, against his chest, "You are Jon, you may not be the Other Jon. But you are Jon and that is more than enough for me. I love you, brother."

More tears and his grateful that she does not mention it, even as they drop into her red hair. Silently, Jon Snow makes a vow.

 _I vow that my family will survive what is to come_

"I love you, too… Sansa."

* * *

 **AN:** **I do not own A Song of Ice & Fire or A Game of Thrones in any sense. It's universe, characters all belong to its amazing creator, George R.R. Martin, its publishing and broadcasting companies.  
**

 **This is me, playing in its sandbox, making misshapen sandcastles.**

 **1*: I never said that Sansa was the only person that looked like a Tully in the fic. I said that she was the most Southern of the Stark children, which is not equating her appearance only. I know people are getting on me for using the show heavily, but I just want to clear that up a bit.**

 **2*: I always figured that Tyrion would eventually explain who Shae was. And despite her betrayal, Sansa would look kindly to her support of her to an extent. I know, I know, she isn't Sansa's handmaid in the books, but I like her arc in the show, so that's that**

 **Dear God I never expected a response to be so large for this fic. Thank you, kindly, for anyone who has reviewed, followed and favorited. Much obliged, much appreciated even the critiques.**

 **I know all the responses have not been positive- and for that, I say that everyone is completely valid in their opinion. I know I am not the best author and evidently, A Song of Ice & Fire is something that is very near and dear to many's hearts. As it should be- George R.R. Martin is a master at his craft and I have immense respect for the world he created(except for the ill-conceived thoughts on how vaginas work, he got that wrong). This fic is just a response and my interpretation. If you do not like it, that's fine. This is something I'm doing for fun, with a character I happen to enjoy. Because of her potential in the books, for the role she takes in the show. Beyond that, I can't really see what I can say in response to the reviews, especially because the reviews I speak of are mainly guest reviews. I rather not devote an insanely large part of the authors note to respond to someone that most likely does not care for one in the first place(more so than I have already). If anyone wishes for a proper response a PM would be answered. **

**Also, as per the pacing for the fic, I'm just getting started. The first few chapters are, prologue and the next three are reactions on Sansa's part and the Starks. My very next chapter, _Summer,_ will include a small time skip(a couple of months from this day) and be from Arya's POV. Sansa's next chapter will be chapter seven, Earth.**

 **~Happy Reading,**

 **Moon Witch '96**


	5. Summer

_**Summer**_

" _It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade,"_

 _Charles Dickens_

Arya Stark thinks that her elder sister has gone mad, and their parents are desperately trying to hide the fact.

In the last few weeks, since she had gone screaming down the halls like a mad woman she most likely is, Arya had noticed that there had been a serious shift in the household. Lately, Sansa had been relieved of attending her lessons with Septa Mordane, which Arya thought was _stupidly unfair,_ and had instead taken to following mother and father about like a duckling. Constantly at their heels, constantly with some form of parchment or scroll or book in hand.

Septa Mordane was horribly upset at this development, of losing her star and easiest to handle pupil during what had been their daily lessons. It had been sudden and with no explanation and the older woman was severally upset. She pleaded with their Mother to have Sansa return after what many in Winterfell thought to be only a severe change in her education as a noble Lady, with no luck on her part.

" _Sansa is a fine young Lady, Septa," their mother had murmured, calmly, "Her education in the Seven, sewing and dancing is over for now. You have done a wonderful job with her."_

 _Septa Mordane had insisted that Lady Catelyn come to their morning lesson, and it appeared to Arya, as she watched with clear eyes, that it had been in hopes that mother would bring Sansa along to see what she had been missing. Sansa was the few of the girls in the household that enjoyed her lessons with the Septa, and Septa Mordane was trying to coax the girl back. She hardly could speak to her sister in private, as Sansa was constantly with her parents or politely excusing herself from the most company with a distance look in her eye._ _Septa Mordane had had enough of trying to appeal to Sansa, it seemed, and gone directly to their mother._

 _But, her mother had not come with Sansa, appearing alone, looking somewhat annoyed by the request, but trying to be courteous and disguise the fact. Septa Mordane was reaching, furrowed brows, as she actually placed down her sewing to look at Lady Catelyn seriously._

" _But my Lady, surely you cannot think that Sansa is completely educated. The girl is a wonderful student, certainly, but she is still young-"_

" _Her father and I have decided that Sansa needs to understand how a Noble House is run from our perspective. She cannot do that here, Septa. We have decided that the best solution is to have Sansa follow us both."_

" _My Lady-"_

" _If Sansa will return, it will not be soon, Septa Mordane. Her duty is elsewhere… Now, if I am no longer needed, please excuse me, there are many things I must attend to."_

 _Her mother had left with an even nod, but a flurry of skirts that indicated her impatience and reluctance of meeting with the Septa. Lips pursed, the older woman had turned, face blank, but jaw tight as if she was grinding her teeth, to Arya._

" _Lady Arya," she stated, primly, standing to check over her needlework._

 _Arya had winced and lifted her gnarled mess with reluctance._

 _Septa Mordane had sighed._

" _Your sister had this stitch down in less than two days," muttered the Septa, "Restart this mess, child."_

 _Something curled in Arya's stomach, as the other girls tittered and as the Septa shook her head in disapproval again, tsking as she went back to her own sewing. She did not even mention the fact that Jayne's stitching was nearly as bad as Arya's, nor did she mention what Arya had done wrong in the stitch. Arya clenched her fists before she started to remove the cloth from her hoop._

Jayne Poole, too, was horribly upset over the fact that Sansa had more less stopped talking to her in favor of her 'duties' with their parents. She begged Arya to tell Sansa to come back, and when Arya had shrugged and dismissed the older girl, Jayne had collapsed into large, messy tears. Arya had seen, somewhat strangely, when Jayne had come up to Sansa in the Great Hall only for her sister to stare at the girl as if she didn't know her:

" _Sansa, you must beg your mother and father to return you to our lessons, you must!"_

 _Her sister had stopped, looked at Jayne with a furrowed brow, face not falling into idiotic delight at the sight of her best friend. She had only looked at the other girl, a puzzled expression on her face for a fraction of a second before her face turned smooth as polished stone. When Jayne had rushed forward, to hang on Sansa's arm as she always had, Sansa had paled, alarmingly so, dodging out of the way with a quickness that had Jayne sprawled on the floor._

 _Jayne had cried out, crying at her scraped knees and ruined stockings…_

 _But Arya had been looking at Sansa._

 _Her face, still smooth as stone, had lost more color. And her chest had been heaving, quickly as if she struggled for breath. Jon had rushed forward from his place at the High Table, placing a hand on Sansa's shoulder._

" _Jayne just misses you Sansa," murmured Jon, seriously, looking at their sister with concern._

 _Sansa blinked before she nodded slowly. Understanding dawning on her face._

" _Jayne… Jayne, I'm sorry. You startled me. I apologize for the reaction… It's been so long since we've spoken, hasn't it?" her voice had been clear, soft and sweet._

 _Arya, from her place at the head table noticed this, brows furrowing at the strange reaction on her sister's part. She went over, gliding in that new walk of her's, better than mother's prime walk, and helped Jayne from the floor. She had smiled at Jayne… But Arya had thought that the smile didn't quite meet her eyes._

Her brother's lessons with Maester Luwin had increased, as had her's, to a stupid amount, and Arya wonders if Sansa going mad is the reason. Her lessons with the Septa had decreased, much to her pleasure, to being only twice a week instead of daily, but she was expected to have more with Maester Luwin instead. She liked him better then Septa Mordane- He didn't favor anyone, not even Robb, as the heir. And he didn't frown at her so much, even when she fidgeted so much. Nearly every day she was sitting in with the boys and was forced to learn much more than before. Arya did like how different the lessons were- she was no longer just limited to learning dances and specific stitches with a few lessons with Maester Luwin, but if she was forced to recite the entirety of the houses of the Seven Kingdoms again she was kicking the snickering Robb in his shin, and Jon couldn't block it this time.

" _Focus, Lord Robb," said Maester Luwin, voice creaking, but steady, "Now if you please, tell me what the best diplomatic solution."_

 _Robb's red brows furrowed. He absently picked at a spot on his chin._

" _I don't understand. Why would it not just be best to storm the Keep? The proposed army has better numbers, better arms. It would be easy to overwhelm them, wouldn't it?"_

 _Arya own brows furrowed, as she stared at the map and the pieces in front of her. Bran's leg was jiggling up and down in impatience, and his eyes were glazed over. He liked stories and lessons about knights, more than these theoretical lessons of battles. Arya liked them well enough, but Maester Luwin never asked her any questions unless they were talking about Maths. Theon was picking absently at a thread on his trousers, clenching and unclenching his spare fist. Jon was staring at the map, dark eyebrows scrunched together in concentration._

" _Robb's right," said Theon, absently, "The invading army even has enough ships to surround them on their left side by the sea. Wouldn't take long to conquer the place. Ships conquer everything."_

 _Maester Luwin sighed, his mouth quirking in slight distaste. Arya frowned._

" _But the Keep has rations for up to five year s,"said Jon, softly, "The invading army has two, with their larger numbers, as they have the same amount of rations. Their walls are tall, well built. Even from the sea's side. The invading army has little to no access to any easy points to get into the Keep. Not to mention their escape and merchant routes are tied off. Diplomacy may be the best option."_

 _Robb straightened, blinking._

" _Well said, Jon," said Maester Luwin, lips twitching, "Now, Lord Robb, what is the best solution?"_

" _A parely?" he said, sheepishly, "Possibly a treaty?"_

 _Maester Luwin nods._

" _Good. Never underestimate relations between Houses. They can make or break someone's rule as Lord Paramount. Now, what terms should be negotiated?"_

Jon had changed as well.

He was quieter then before, something Arya had not expected to be possible. He didn't smile as often either, something Arya blamed on Sansa's madness. Jon obviously was very uneased with all the ways Sansa seemed to attach herself to their brother. He had less time to play and their archery lessons at night were getting less and less, as Jon was constantly 'busy'.

" _But you promised!" she begged, already dressed in her cloak and boots. She stared at Jon, as he carefully combed his unruly curls._

 _Grey eyes looked at her, and he gave a small, tight smile._

" _Father and your Lady Mother have asked me to come see them tonight, Arya," he said calmly in return, adjusting his clothes._

 _They were nicer then before, embroidered finely with a snarling white direwolf against a dark grey, with gleaming red eyes made from what Arya thought to be glass beads that were hard to come by. It was a nicely made doublet of velvet and silk, and usually, Jon would not have bothered with such things. Arya knew he was given his own allowance, just as she was, and the older Starks were all responsible for managing their own clothing. She knew Sansa constantly spent her allowance on silk and finner velvet, instead of the hard spun and more practical wool like Jon and Robb. She had also seen candle light underneath Sansa's door each night she had come see Jon, and wondered if her sister had given him the doublet._

" _Jon?"_

 _Sansa walked in without knocking, a cloak around her shoulders. It was a dark thing, to large for Sansa's slight frame. Arya wondered why she had stolen that from father._

" _Oh," she said, calmly, staring at Arya. Her face was still, even, as it always was these days. Something about it always made Arya uneasy._

 _Sansa always smiled, always laughed and constantly and easily fell into tears. Not anymore. The madness had taken that away, Arya was sure._

" _Arya, it's late. Do you not have lessons in the morning?" Sansa said, and she made no mention of how Arya was dressed in Robb's and Jon's old clothes. The old Sansa would have made an enormous fuss._

 _But the new, mad Sansa didn't even blink._

" _Jon… Jon and I where going to play in the Godswood… He promised."_

 _Delicate red brows drew together._

" _Jon, go with Arya."_

" _But-"_

" _I'll make your excuses, go. Arya needs some time with you."_

 _Something gave than, in Sansa's newly stilled face. Something sweet that made Arya want to cry. But than it was gone, as quickly as it'd come._

" _No. Father and your Lady Mother asked me to be there. It's important. Arya, tomorrow."_

 _It was always tomorrow, never today._

Arya was upset over the changes in the household, about the changes to her stupid older sister. She wanted… She wasn't sure what she wanted. But she didn't like the way things were now. She felt as if she was standing so far apart from everyone else. She was so far behind in comparison to where the boys where in their lessons, in the lessons she needed to be a stupid, proper Lady, and Jon didn't talk to her as much anymore. She felt very alone, and Bran was no help, what with his books and constantly climbing to places she couldn't reach in her dresses. Rickon was a baby of course, and Robb had Theon. Even her friends from around Winterfell were kept busy lately, a flurry of activity hitting Winterfell in a large frenzy that Arya had never seen before.

In it all, Arya had no one.

She walked into her room, after another day of hiding in the Crypts, absently trying to get the dust out of her hair, and the tangles, so her mother wouldn't notice when she came to brush her hair for the night after her bath. In her room, she noted with surprise that someone had already set up the bath, a warm thing so hot that the water steamed.

"Arya," Sansa said, smiling, as she stood from Arya's bed. The smile was small, but it was a _smile_ , a rare thing to see on Sansa's face these days and it reached her bright blue eyes.

She stood elegantly and in a single movement, eyes intent on her. Arya stared at her mad sister, eyes squinting.

"Sansa, what are you doing here?" she asked, suspiciously.

Sansa paused mid stride, blinking. She held a bundle to her chest, cloth, a dark grey so dark it was nearly black. Arya could see that it also had fur, what looked like a white fox, an expensive thing to find.

"I brought you something. A present. I apologize for not being quicker, my duties with mother and father have taken much of my time," Sansa said quietly, looking down at the floor.

Arya stared, and wondered when was the last time Sansa had given her something.

"It isn't my name day."

Sansa looked up, again, face still. Something in Arya's stomach crawled.

"I know. But it's important that you have it… Especially for tomorrow."

"What's so special about tomorrow?"

Another smile, small thing that eased that thing in Arya's stomach.

"A surprise for you. Come, let me see if I got the fit right."

Arya walked forward, cautiously, and watched as Sansa unfolded her bundle across the bed. It was clothes, something Arya expected as a gift from Sansa. It was a fine cloak, that dark grey material, trimmed in that fine white fur. There was also small, short boots of a fine supple leather, trimmed with that white fur and gloves to match. Arya blinked, curiously, at the doublet Sansa was spreading out, velvet, a bright, luminous silver stitched finely with what looked like a grey direwolf, caught in a howl, similar to Jon's new one. The eyes, also made of beads, were a dark yellow. The doublet was fitted tightly and with long sleeves, with matching breeches, dark grey to match the cloak. Ribbons, stitched with simple little wolves, also grey against sliver, were set to the side.

"Well?" asked Sansa, hands twisting together, "Do you like it?"

Arya blinked.

"It… It isn't a dress?"

Sansa blinks, before a smile filled her face.

"No. Trust me. A dress is the wrong thing. Come on, you can try it on after a bath."

Reluctantly, Arya went to get her laces, and struggled a little. Without her asking, Sansa went to help, gently undoing the laces in the back of her dress.

"Your full of dust," she muttered, absently.

"I was in the Crypts. Playing."

"Alone?"

Arya said nothing, only tensed. Sansa's hands stilled, before they resumed their work.

"Have you been alone a lot, Arya?"

Arya's lower lip trembled, and her eyes stung, but she refused to cry.

"Ever since you went mad. No one's around. Everything's changed."

Sansa hummed.

"I haven't gone mad."

"But… But you don't act like yourself. I never see you cry or laugh anymore. Before you went mad you cried and laughed at everything."

Sansa was quiet and she simply helped Arya lift her dust filled dress over her head. She carefully arranged the dress as Arya turned to her, across her dressing screen, shaking her hand across the surface of the woolen material to clean it slightly.

"Of course you would notice," said Sansa, absently, going for Arya's dresser. She picked up her hair brush and turned back to her, "You always see things very clearly, don't you Arya?"

Arya squinted at Sansa, with her still face again. Suddenly her still face eased, into a smile, larger, brighter then before. It reached her eyes.

"If I told you I went mad, what would you say?"

"It's either that or you're a grumpkin, and you stole the real Sansa. If you did I want her back. She's stupid but she's my sister."

Laughter fell from Sansa's lips, bright, happy. Something of a knot that Arya didn't know she had in her heart eases, and she felt her own lips twitch slightly, before she started laughing herself.

"I missed that sound. I can't remember the last time you laughed with me, Arya."

That stopped the laughter on Arya's part, and she looked to see Sansa's face had fallen into something sad, her lower lip trembling slightly.

"You have Jeyne."

Sansa shakes her head, reaching out to place a hand on Arya's face. Absently, it seemed, she rubbed at the dirt there.

"Jeyne is my…. Friend. But you are my sister. That day, when I was screaming like I was mad made me realize that. Now turn around, I have to brush out those tangles before your bath. You are not trying on your new clothes that filthy."

It sounded so much like how Sansa used to be, that Arya didn't respond, only turned around. She expected Sansa's hand to be rough, as she went through her hair. But she was patient as mother always was, mindful of not pulling her scalp too harshly. She even helped her out of her small clothes and shift, and helped scrub her hair, like they used to do when they were younger and shared baths. When Arya had dried herself, she slipped into both small clothes and Sansa's present.

It fit her well, perfectly. Sansa brought a large mirror, the one from her room, and showed Arya what she looked like. She… Looked like a boy, almost, if it weren't for her hair, still drying in loose curls over her shoulders. But the clothes looked good on her, she looked... Different, she seemed to stand straighter in the doublet and breeches, and everything was very easy to move in.

 _I could follow Bran!_

"I had to guess with some things. The ribbons are for your hair, to pull it back. If you need help tomorrow, you can call for me and I'll braid it."

"It's…"

"Fit for Nymeria, the Warrior Queen, I bet?"

Sansa grinned at her, toothy, eyes gleaming. Arya's lips twitched, but she felt confused.

"What?"

"Nevermind, you'll understand. I'm having the seamstress make you simpler ones of course, but this one, this one had to be special for tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?"

Blue eyes sparkled.

"A surprise, Arya. I cannot say. Goodnight."

Quickly, she darted forward and pecked her cheek, before she left the room.

In the morning, after she had broken her fast, she was instructed to go to one of their larger rooms, just off of the Great Hall. Arya had followed the instructions, shifting somewhat uneasily in her new boots, and the way that people stared at her. Sansa walked with her, a distant look in her eyes, but unlike before, she wound her arm with Arya's. _She hasn't done that since Septa Mordane told her that a Lady holds herself apart from other's_. Because of that, Arya made herself stand tall, to feel at ease in her new clothes, as she walked into one of the larger rooms off of the Great Hall. Only one person was there in the recently empty room, all the furniture had been taken away, or pushed against the wall. He was a small man, skinny like her. He was also bald, with a large hook nose. And he was staring at her, frowning.

Sansa let go of her arm, gave her a smile, and nodded encouragingly before she gave her a peck on the cheek again and left the room without saying a single word. Arya stared after her, brows smashed together.

"You're late, boy," said the man after a moment voice thick with an accent that Arya had never heard before.

She frowned, shifting uneasily as she turned to look at the man.

"I am not. I was to come to this room after I finished my breaking my fast. I finished breaking my fast just now," she countered, lifting her chin, "And I'm not a boy. Who are you?"

Lips twitched on the man's face and he lifted a single, finely arched brow. She noted with fascination that he had an earring in his left ear that swung as he walked forward to her, hands behind his back.

"I am Syrio Forel, and I am to teach you the Water Dance."

Arya felt her heart sink. _Was her surprise a dancing teacher? How very like the old Sansa to make her new clothes to make this happen. Maybe she is just mad if she thought I would like this._

"Did my father hire you?"

"Yes," said the man, carefully, circling her, "He paid quite a good amount of dragons to bring me to this cold land."

Arya followed the man with her eyes, following his movements as her brows drew together.

"Why? Septa Mordane knows all the proper dances. You don't need to teach me them."

Lips twitched in that tanned face, and large nostrils flared as he laughed.

"Oh, the Water Dance is not for a dance hall."

Suddenly, the man's legs shifted, just slightly, and his hands, lightning quick, brought out a wooden sword from behind his back. He used it before Arya could even react to the 'blade', had smacked her against her hip. Arya yelped, jumping back. The man, Syrio Forel, smiled.

"It is a deadly thing. Now, child, which is your sword hand?"

Arya stared at the man, who was staring at her expectantly a smile on his deeply tanned face. Slowly, her lips pulled up into a smile of her own in response.

 _Now this is a surpise._


	6. Love

_**Love**_

" _True love doesn't happen right away; it's an ever-growing process. It develops after you've gone through many ups and downs, when you've suffered together, cried together, laughed together," Ricardo Montalban  
_

Catelyn Stark of the House of Tully loved Eddard Stark.

It had not been a love so easily given, she is the first to admit to herself. Since she had been but a girl, she had been promised to Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, future Lord Paramount of the North. He had been handsome, all those years ago, when she had first met him. Tall, loud, brash and fierce. Wild in a thrilling way to her, she who was so innocently unused to men like him. With his loud voice, his wiggling brows, the proud set of his shoulders as he went about Riverrun. She had been so ready, so accepting of the spouse chosen for her, that tall, proud man, with his broad-chested, muscled arms, with the piercing grey eyes and the ready smile about his bearded mouth.

When Petyr had challenged him, watching the bout for her honor, for her hand had been thrilling. Flattering and showcasing the prowess of who they called the Wild Wolf- When Brandon had won so simply and spared the dear boy who was her friend, she had felt her attraction fall to love as easily as anything. Mercy was such a hard thing to give and Brandon Stark as wild, uncouth as he could be, had granted it so readily with a word from _her_ as if she was the tempering hand. His conscious. She could see her life with him, so easily, so readily, he the Proud Lord Paramount, she the sweet Lady at his side, his mercy, his love. _Dreams of grey-eyed babes, of sweetly faced children from him, had made her so ridiculously happy._

She had spent moons dreaming of the man, the fierce man, hands stitching elegant handkerchiefs of favor for him, silver fishes dancing with grey wolves. She had spent just as much time on her Maiden's Cloak and wedding dress, careful of each and every detail for her magical day. Then news of his death had come and his younger brother, Eddard, 'Ned' as he was known, had come to be her husband instead.

He was not as tall, not as handsome, shorter, quieter. Drabber. Not rash. Not fierce or so well comported as Brandon. Oh, he was perhaps more polite, but he did not have his elder brother's charisma, his magnetism. Nor Cat's easy love, only her empathy at his lost and the reassurance of what little she had heard of his temperament. And she could not see this person battle for her hand so readily as Brandon had done. But duty and family compelled her, so she had married that quiet boy with uneasy and certainty of the war to come. His companion, Robert Baratheon had been rallying for war and the Lord of the Vale, Jon Aryn was ready to rage against the crown for the sake of his two fosterlings. She knew what she was. A political marriage, a political hold for the North and the East, an assurance of arms. _Family, Duty, Honor._

But he had been gentle when all her Septa had told her would only be pain and endurance. He had not been savage, unpracticed as he was, but he had waited and whispered for forgiveness when she had cried out. Soothed away her hair, calloused hands trembling against her brow. He had hardly said a word beyond asking for forgiveness, had hardly made a sound but soft pants of need. But all of his touches had been gentle and in that first coupling part of Cat's heart had gone to that quiet boy as she had looked into his dark grey eyes.

And he had left Riverrun to fight a war, his seed inside her, and part of her wondered if he would never come back.

Robb had been beauty in flesh for her. So small limbs, blue eyes so much like her, blond hair quickly falling to vivid red. A gift from her husband, _"An heir to Winterfell," her father had said,_ and more of her heart had gone to Ned Stark, so far away from her. For if they could make such a thing as Robb, together… Perhaps they were not so politically forced together after all. Perhaps she could love the man who was fighting so gallantly to avenge his kin, to find his sister.

Then the war had been won.

And he had another woman's babe in his arms, so lovingly, when he had never held his own trueborn heir.

Rage, betrayal had stung and Cat had resigned herself to a loveless marriage, at the humiliation of a bastard in her own home. _A living sin._ Her strange new home, wild and cold, people indifferent and disliking of her, a Southern woman, a strange unpracticed and too different of their ways. She _tried_ , she threw herself into duty and in defense of her own honor, in making both noble and small folk alike understand she was no usurper or dismissive of their traditions. Ned built her a Sept, on coming to Winterfell, despite how much the rest of the North did not want it. _She was the pagan, the outsider with her strange Seven and weird worship. But he built anyway, insistent at giving her her place as the Lady of Winterfell._ A gesture of good faith, of acceptance of her difference when everyone was so ready to rally against them.

Time passed.

Sansa was born and the expression on Ned's face had made more of heart go to him, as he had made the bells of Winterfell and Town ring out in a joyous triumph of the life they had made together. It took more children, Bran, Arya for her to understand how insanely in love she had fallen with Eddard when, he, for a second time, ran off to fight King Robert's War. He was not Brandon, nor his substitute He was… _More_. Brandon had been the first sweet love so easily given. Eddard was _true love_ hard-won and long made by years together, by the blood shared of their children coming into being.

"Sansa," asked Cat, softly, "Where you in love with the High King?"

Sansa starts, looking at her from above her final designs for more glass gardens strewn across the desk she now had in Ned's solar. It was too cramped to work on a single desk together, so two had been added.

" _The worse was the fact that the Winter stores were practically non-existence… The War of Five Kings wrecked the realm, tore it apart and when Winter came, most wrights came from those that starved to death," Sansa had said, matter factly, "Keeps wrecked, small folk scattered, unable to till the land and most traded halted. While most of the fight was south of the Neck, the North was not spared with so much of its forces down South."_

 _Ned is looking down at the ancient plans, so old that some of the ink has faded to nothing. His brows are furrowed, as Caitlyn fights the urge to say something. Ned simply looks up and stares at Sansa._

" _Do you have any idea how expensive this endeavor will be?"_

 _Pink lips flatten for a moment before Sansa's face clears into a still mask. It grew more perfected with each day, that unmoving face. Placid, easy to fall into an empty if perfect smile. The Bas-_ _ **Jon**_ _, is staring at the designs with black furrowed brows, and for a moment Cat thinks she can see more clearly how much he looks like his biological father. She rarely met Prince Rhaegar in life, and cannot recall if she had ever spoken directly to him more then a polite congratulations during his wedding to Elia Martell. She had even kept her distance at the wedding ceremony, uneasy at the thought of touching that silver haired man that was so…_ _ **Beautiful.**_ _But from her brief acquaintance, she remembers a withdrawn, quiet man with constant sorrow shadowing him. And she can see him in this boy, in the serious, quiet way he held himself so tightly, warily, and she wonders with more then a little remorse if that wariness is her own doing._

" _Oh, very. But that is just one thing that must be done. It is a priority," blue eyes flicker up, "The North is fertile, but has little time during its natural growing season, even during Summer. Our reliance on Southern crops is an issue. We cut off that reliance, the more the North can become more independent if the South falls to War again. If we can install a glass garden in every Keep-"_

" _Sansa, that is not feasible, nor are many willing to invest-"_

 _Blue eyes gleam._

" _Than we give them a reason too. It's only one thing for now, but it is an important start. We remind them of our words, of the fact that the Summer has nearly been a decade at this point. Winter is always sure to follow fiercely in response. If King Jon and I could get the North to achieve this during the Southern War and during the winds of winter, in peacetime, we can do the same. We must be smart- such a thing will cause alarm to those who export to us. The Reach and the Riverlands will not a cut of their profits without good reason or a substitute of income."_

 _Cat is often more stunned at the way that Sansa carries herself nowadays then her tales of the dark future._

Now, the seemingly young girl blinks, and Cat fights the urge to fidget beneath her daughter's eyes. _Which makes her feel ridiculous._ The stillness and compartment of a woman of twenty in the body of one of ten, as Sansa claimed, was entirely unsettling, regardless if it was true or not. It gave the girl an air of eeriness that even Catelyn as her own mother couldn't deny. To have it directed to you unsettled one deeply, especially if the remembered the cheerful, lovely summer child who had once worn that face. The question of where her daughter's affection lead in light of Jon's identity and role in her life has plagued Cat for _weeks, still, moons later._

Even as Sansa slowly spun her tale of terror and lost and they all made careful, well thought out plans for what was to come in only three years. And the years after. They spent weeks furiously plotting(Cat had no other word for it), furiously thinking of the best way to prepare without shaking the realm into unsteady suspicion. _Glass gardens, dragon glass, Arms, food storage, expansion of the Keep for the coming Winter, filling the ranks of both armies and the Night's Watch, trying to some extent to police the political situation down South,_ _ **dragons**_ _._ The events, that Sansa had told them broadly more or less affirmed that the realm was insanely unstable if the death of three men could potentially destabilize it so much.

Somewhere, in her heart's of heart's, Cat did not believe that Lysa could murder her husband. That Petyr, little Petyr could pit her husband's House, _her House_ , against the Lannisters. That he had, and still lusted for her in the unhealthy way as Sansa had described. For she remembers Family, Duty & Honor and part of her will always think that Lysa and Petyr must as well. But Cat stands by her husband first and foremost, and her children and she will, while not completely believe, follow. She is waiting, the words of her husband's house, now truly _her's,_ rang true enough and while the madness of her own daughter _murdering_ herself and her sister in a blaze of wild fire and waking back in time still made her doubt… Catelyn could not deny her second words.

 _Winter was coming._

And the Starks would not fall to its white winds.

Her daughter laughs, slightly, a soft thing of genuine mirth that is much rarer for Cat to hear, and it nearly breaks her heart.

"Answer me honestly, sweetling… I have no judgment for your feelings over your cousin-"

"Mother," says Sansa, a voice, firm and unyielding odd in that of a child ten name days, "I… I could have loved my King, perhaps, as a man, but he was my brother first, and I relished that in him when we found each other again."

"But there was a chance? The way you speak of him, as if he hung the stars and the moon-"

A shadow falls across summer skies in her daughter's eyes.

"I have never felt romantic love, mother. Never in my life. I thought, perhaps… My original betrothed, I thought I loved him in the beginning. But I only loved the image of a golden, gilded King and golden perfect babes. Never the boy. "

Unease comes to Cat at the thought of the bastard of incest living as Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. She, again, knows not if it is true. But Sansa believes, and more importantly, Ned believes, _he_ who ignores signs from the gods, he who was so practical and unshaken by omens and so, Cat _will_ follow. _Family, Duty, Honor_. Perhaps its those omens that she so trusted that made her more eager to follow her daughter's words, to heed them however spectively of their truth.

For her babe is gone from in ways she had never wanted, that is the only truth she knows in the face of everything, regardless of the merit of the future she predicted would happen if they did _nothing_.

"I-"

"I… I had some chances, I think, of what could have grown to true love. Father, just before we were to flee, he told me he wanted someone who is brave and gentle and strong to marry me and Arya when the time came. Which King Joffrey was not. I had only wished I had listened to him when I could."

Cat watches her daughter… And wonders.

"Chances?"

Another faint, distant smile.

"A… Warrior in the King's employee tried to do me a gentle act, in educating me. Tried to open my eyes when I so soundly wished to close them in the face of my situation… My first husband was strong, in sparing me the marriage bed unless I wished to join him, despite… My status as a hostage. He was unstoppable, so determined against the world despite how much it was set to hate him. And Jon was brave, unyielding in command of the world fallen to madness."

Three men, two unnamed, which is something that Cat does not miss in her daughter's speech.

"But.. I was broken, long before I had a chance to find love... Into little pieces. The High King put me back together, but it was not a romantic gesture. I was his _sister._ Even when he had no reason to call me such after the indifference I have given him all our lives."

Cat started, heart aching.

"Don't blame yourself, mother. I… Was too harsh with you, a few moons ago. When I told you of myself. You believed in people you loved when you were young. You had no reason to mistrust them… No matter what the outcome was."

Sansa sighs, a weighted thing, before she returns to her work. Cat stares at her daughter, before she does the same. Ned comes to them after many moments of practical silence, beyond the scratching of the quill across their parchment. His face is drawn tight and his hands are nervously on his belt, a nervous habit few noticed.

Sansa stands, immediately, as does Cat.

It is hard to look at him, even if there was no doubt to Cat that she loved him. For a lie of three and ten years is still a lie of three and ten years. She forgives it, to some extent, in wake of their circumstances, for they had been but strangers when he had returned from the Tower of Joy with the bones of his sister and her babe, but she doesn't think she cannot forget. Lyanna was not Ned's long lost lady love, but a woman has still haunted their marriage for the lies she had made necessary. Ned had never placed true trust in her and it hurt her more then she could stay, even if the words of her father's house made her understand him. _Family, Duty, Honor._ But she had become family as well and the lies was a price she did not know she could pay.

"The rest of the replies of the Lords of the North have come."

Sansa does not move, even as Cat strides forward, hands trembling. Automatically she reaches for her husband, before she lets her hands drop.

"And?"

Ned frowns, face grim as his hands tighten their grip on their belt.

"They come, all of the North's houses, big or small are coming within the next fortnight. The Lords of the North shall gather at Winterfell to discuss the issue of the coming Winter. A council of the all the North for the first time since the Ironborn."

Sansa smiles, a small, pretty thing that does not met her eyes.

"Any news back from the Citadel?" she asks, calmly moving over to the small table to the right of the solar, pouring wine in her father's cup and offering it to him.

Ned takes it, but does not drink. He simply holds the drink.

"None, yet, but soon. I believe your projections will come back confirmed from their first few letters. All of Westeros will see that Winter is Coming… A long one."

Sharp blue eyes gealm.

"And King's Landing?"

Something tightens in Ned's face. He looks away.

"No word from the King. The Hand, however, has given credence to our worry and tells us that we have full support of the Crown once the Citadel confirms everything. No one can accuse of us of instruction."

"Good. I must take my revised plans of the glass houses to Maester Luwin and our new resident glass blower, if you are to excuse me, I will only be a moment, Mother, Father."

Sansa leaves the room in a flurry of dark skirts and after a most elegant curtsy. Catelyn admires her form just as much as she is annoyed by her leaving her alone with Ned. She had taken residence in the rooms of the Lady of the House, unused for the majority of their long marriage, and had little reason to be alone with her husband for moons with Sansa and Jon constantly at their heels…

"My lady?" his voice is soft, deep and after years of marriage, achingly comforting.

She sighs.

"Ned."

Grey eyes look to her, sorrowful and something pulls in her chest.

"Will you… Will you still stay by my side, Cat? I need you."

Ned is a man of few words- to say such things must have been a struggle. Her lower lip trembles, but she refuses tears. A lady does not fall apart.

"Yes. I am duty bound."

"I ask not for duty."

She looks at him, her husband, who has never betrayed her with another woman, but instead hidden something that would kill them all instead. She is not sure if she preferred Jon Snow to be a bastard instead of a princling of a fallen dynasty. Resentment does not heal in face of the truth and sometimes when she sees Jon she is still angry, still frustrated. Still hateful in ways she knew not possible of herself- she was a proud woman but she had always thought herself to be undeniably kind. Jon Snow had shown her the worst parts of her and Cat did not like them. To know that her anger and hurt was misplaced did not reveal her of them, the lie only made her hurt more.

"I know."

"I only meant to protect you and the children, if the worst came to be."

Cat looks away and sighs.

"I know."

"Can you not… Find it in yourself to forgive me?"

She loves him. She has been in love with Eddard Stark for so long, so many years spent together in spite of their happenstance of a marriage, and sometimes in her darkest, yet happiest moments she is so _glad_ that she married him instead of Brandon. She sighs, and lets the tears fall as she strides forward. Her forehead against his. He is kind, gentle and strong. He is not what she had wanted, since girlhood, but better.

 _More._

"I already have," the words are true and gently said. Even as her hurt and rejection threaten to consume her, "But I need time, my love."

Ned says nothing, only kisses the tears on her cheeks as they fall, every single last one. As always his actions speak more then his words.

* * *

 **I am so sorry there has been a delay in this chapter. I weirdly have been updating this story steadily every week for the first five chapters, which isn't like me at all. I tend to be a slow updater and sometimes months can go by before I update. This chapter was more or less done two weeks ago, but I'm out of town doing an internship at a summer art camp and have been insanely busy because of it. Sorry for the delay.**

 **~Happy Reading,**

 **Moon Witch '96**

 **Next Chapter: Earth, Sansa's POV.**


	7. Earth

_**Earth**_

" _There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast,"_

 _Charles Dickens_

Sansa Stark kneels before the godstrees, before the _heart_.

She had always been pious. To both the old and new gods, mostly the new, so intent on her mother's religion. There had always been a beauty to it. A rhythm to it that the old, dubious and nameless gods of her father. Omens, signs of divinity were so much easier, so much more frequent in the wake of the Seven, that like many of the Southern mannerisms her mother brought to her life, Sansa had grown to adore them. She knew them well, learned both song and tenants. She had been devoted, happy to kneel with her mother within the seven-sided room in the Sept her father had lovingly built for her, praying to them all in hope of… Something. Of destiny. Of things, a noble maid was due from the gods.

She wanted _happiness_. She wanted love and perhaps a song to be written about her. She wanted glittering golden babes and the praise of all who saw her splendor.

She had often prayed Maiden, once, innocent and free, that protected and beloved beauty. She had prayed for a good marriage to her beloved prince, to be as beautiful as Queen Cersei... Then she had prayed to the Father Above, for justice, for understanding of her father's guiltlessness, to right the horrible injustice and misunderstanding. Then she had prayed to the Mother, for protection, for mercy from her beautiful, horrible captors in the golden, stinking cage of King's Landing. She had prayed to the Warrior, for Robb, for her brother to be gallant hero* within her story, she his beloved sister rescued from the monsters in golden cloaks. She had prayed to the Crone, for wisdom, for guidance in a world full of shadows and uncertainty. In the wake of the Second Long Night, she had prayed to the Smith to mend their fragmented world, so precariously kept together by her, the High King and Queen. And in her darkest moments, she had prayed to the Stranger, to take her away from the pain, to give her peace in a world so sharp and cold.

Her prayers had never really been answered by the Seven, much as she thought of them in her years of hostage, in her last few years as Queen of the North alongside Jon.

The old gods… The old gods were a bit different. She had… Never prayed, very seriously to them. They were darker. Vaguer then the Seven. Then the faith so clearly written. For the old gods were more distant. They were numerous, endless. Unnamed and impersonal. Not prettily pressed in a package she understood. Perhaps it was always an innate fear of the unknown that had made her so inclined to the gods of her mother.

Perhaps it is why she had been so unsettled to see them through the gaze of her brother.

Seeing Bran had been… More then unsettling. In the Second Long Night, her brother was _other._ Eerie and much too removed from humanity. Standing before that almost man, wanned face, covered in furs and standing atop of _Summer,_ she had seen little of the little boy with the love of knights. Seen so little of what had been her brother. When he had looked at her, those blue eyes held little to no recognition. Little to no love for what they had been just a decade prior. Bran had been lost… His body tethered to the land by a tenacious strand, his eyes… His eyes had been as if he had been _flying_ so high above her, so connected to the mystical side of that she had so ignored until she had been confronted by the Others, by the wrights come to consume any creature of warm flesh.

" _Sansa," the voice was flat, and her heart beat as if it were to leap from her chest._

 _She clung to the wall, eyes wide, her hand on the blade she had hidden within her sleeve. In the darkness, that enormous wolf form, walked with a sinuous grace, its eyes shining like lamps in the dim light. The man upon him was thin, emaciated, his hair was long and unkempt, was so dark red it appeared black. Perhaps it was just the low light, or perhaps it was truly so red. Like the blood of man's heart._

" _Who are you? What do you want?" her voice does not flatter, does not shake. But she is shaking. She cannot stop. She had awoken in her bed only to see the maw of some great beast above her, teeth gleaming._

 _The man does not blink. His unlikely mount only moves forward. When she sees his eyes- the_ _ **color**_ _of his blue eyes, she nearly screams._

" _Bran? Bran is that you?" her voice breaks, her heart, beating so fast, nearly stops. She does not dare hope. She had already lost Robb, Arya, and little Rickon._

 _The thin man upon the dire wolf does not smile, as she almost does. His expression does not change._

" _Fire. Fire will come for you and Jon and Arya. I must be with you all when it comes."_

 _He says not another word. Only directs his great wolf, larger than even Ghost, away. She follows on his heels, calling calmly for Jon, even as her heart refuses to settle._

It is the memory of Bran that made her come here, to the godswood. To kneel before the heart tree in her father's way. For he had been connected to this and that was more proof then she had ever received from the ever comforting Seven.

She breathes, deeply cool air nearly _burns_ her lungs, as she looks upon the carved face of the heart tree. She had often been unsettled by it, felt something looking at her through those crying eyes, felt a tension in the glorious flow of red sap against that pale bark...The prayer of the old gods is done in silence, not in the song, not in pretty words written and blessed for you beforehand. But in your own words, in your own merit, a secret pack between you and them. And as she looks at the bleeding face, she wonders if these gods will listen more. She wonders if they are what brought her here as well, more than the memory of Bran, the hope that something greater than her will listen. She digs her hands into the earth before it, decaying red leaves and dark, rich earth crushed between her pale hands. Her head, before bowed, lower even further as she presses her head against the rich smelling earth.

 _I know not if you brought me back. But if you had please allow me to better equip us to deal with the coming of the Long Night, of the Winter to kill us all… Please do not let my coming be for naught._

"Sansa?"

She gives a thank you, heartfelt and silent before she lifts her head from the ground. She does not turn at the voice, looking at the tree before her cries its sap. She wonders if the gods have listened.

A breeze, light and warm, goes through the trees, rustling brilliant red leaves and her own unbound hair.

 _I hope that is your answer._

"Father," her voice is calm, sweet and does not change inflection.

"I… I wondered where you had gone."

She stands. Her feet, bare and slightly red from the cold, dig into the earth, relish the feeling. Before she would not have dared to do such an uncouth thing, to be so unladylike to walk upon the earth with bare feet. Now she finds, despite her thick armor, that she can indulge herself in the small things she had dismissed in childhood.

"Did I worry you?" she asks, carefully, moving forward. She slips into her shoes, ignoring the pressing feeling of… A gaze from the direction of the heart tree.

Her father looks tired, so early in the morning, beard growing slightly unruly in the past few moons. It hurts to have done this to him. But she preferred him tired to dead.

"Some. It unusual for you not to be in the Solar before me. When I heard from Jory that you had passed him towards the godswood-"

"I am sorry. I should have left a note."

He only nods, jaw tensing.

"You pray to the old gods?"

Sansa allows a small smile.

"I always have. Perhaps not as well as I should have. But they are a comfort… It reminded me of you."

Another reason to think of them... Of the father lost.

He nods again. Her father is not a man of many words. She had never understood, before, as a child. Always was frustrated with his lack of speech. She thought him distant, if doting, removed, unlike her mother. She had so loved her mother. Loved how easy it had been to talk to her, and her lack of stern or dark moods. As a child, she could never understand the peace that silence could bring. She relishes it now, in the quiet contemplation. _She understands it now._ She loops her arm through his, marveling at the difference in height. She has always been a tall child. But now she hardly reaches his elbow. She feels so deceivingly young at times. The begin to walk, away from the tree. They are midway through the wood when her father speaks again:

"Robb is in my solar."

Sansa pauses mid-stride.

"Today?"

"It will not take long for our bannermen to come to our call. He must know when they are here. We must stand together… The lone wolf dies."

Sansa can only nod.

"Wise, father. We should have told him long before now..."

"We were all reluctant to do so. It is a burden I do not wish for any of my children… But I can see the folly in that wish."

Sansa squeezes his arm. She cannot say anything in the face of his quiet sorrow. It is a noble thing, to wish to protect one's children from the horror of the world. But that is a sweet sentiment that destroyed them once. They, in face of the things to come, cannot be summer children to be slain so readily by white winds. She squeezes his arm.

"He will be prepared father. He will not fall. Not this time."

Robb is indeed waiting for them in the solar, along with her mother and an ever nervous Jon. Her father sits in his chair and looks at her expectantly. She is nervous, the only one standing. But that does not stop her any longer. She breathes, deeply, before she looks her brother straight into his familiar eyes. The eyes that all her siblings save Jon and Arya had.

She tells her tale, for the second time.

When she is finished, Sansa unsure of what her brother, Robb is thinking as he stares at she, their parents and Jon. All of them, save her, have a grim face.

So laughter is not what she expects…

But she cannot blame the boy. While not immature, Robb is still just a boy of three and ten, and her story, even to herself, is more than a little ridiculous. Their lives now are not fantastical, not riddled with omens. Robb was so much like Father- practical, not one to much stock in changing winds or the shift of the sky's color. He knew the Seven well but did not put much stock in the superstitious. He is a boy that is well suited to be an heir- smart, more than a little handsome and he was educated more than well.

But he is still impulsive at times, temperamental and his golden heart made him oddly naive and optimistic in moments. All attributed to his youth and not level of skill. He, after all, is still the same boy that would have, had she not been present, take on the likes of Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister and succeed in nearly all of his subsequent battles. It was diplomacy that ruined him and subsequently the majority of the North, his youthful naivety that believed in true love and that all slights could be forgiven…

 _Her hands clenched the pelt that had once belonged to Grey Wind, it was soft in her hands, and she is reminded vividly of Lady, so small in comparison to this, just before she had begged father to let her say goodbye to that sweet little animal. She realizes that she cannot even cry, eyes dry as she stands, Grey Wind's pelt pressed closely to her chest._

" _Pretty thing," rasps the man who had slaughtered the Young Wolf King. He is an old man, much to Sansa's surprise- though she knew Walder Frey to be old, in her nightmares she had always Walder Frey to be more monstrous- But he is just a man, small wheezing and wrinkled,"Come closer and I will show you how to scream, just like your mother."_

 _Jon's hands come to his blade, his eyes narrowed. No matter that he and her mother had not loved each other, the insult is for her and he rises to defend her. Sansa smiles, pressing her hand on his arm. She appreciates the gesture on her King's part, but it matters not what this man says to her. Words are wind, especially as she circles around him like a she-wolf stalking his prey._

" _He will not die upon the block," says Queen Daenerys, voice tight. Sansa looks to her, and watches as the Khalasi snarls, much like her dragons. Outside, Drogon's roar rattles the Twins._

" _Yes, my Queen," she says, she turns to the Frey Lord, smile sweet as the Maiden, "My King, may Ghost do the honors?"_

 _The old man, so small in reality, so old and more then a foot in the grave, cackles all the way to his execution space, throwing insults and sexual advances on her and the High Queen. She simply keeps smiling, that polite, perfect smile as they bring him before his kin in the courtyard, upon the dais. She holds onto Grey Wind pelt, and prays, to both the old and the new gods to let the spirit of the Young Wolf be at peace, to go to mother and father, to Rickon and Bran, and to wait for she and Jon and Arya as Walder Frey's screams fill the air, as his body is torn apart by Ghost before a horrified crowd of men and women._

 _Drogon's fire soon follows._

He was a child of Summer, as she had been, and she does not resent the nervous giggle that escapes him at the end of their speech, nor as it falls into larger laughter. Nor when it dies slowly, or as he looks wide-eyed to their father. He blinks, red brows furrowing.

"Surely you jest-" he stops mid-sentence, mouth dropping. Then he closes it. He stares at Father's still face, at the grave pull of his mouth and the way he looks steadily at his heir.

"Robb… Fa- Uncle believes," says Jon, quietly, "I believe."

Robb stares at Jon then, as Father places a hand on his shoulder. His expression is completely innocent and bewildered of a boy losing his best friend. He is hurt and more than a little upset.

"Snow. Snow you're my brother."

Jon smiles, small.

"Technically it's Aegon Targaryen, Stark," the joke is small, but all Sansa can be grateful is that Jon can make the effort.

"Aegon? After the conqueror? Aunt Lyanna did you a disservice."

"It was after his half-brother," says father, softly, "The poor babe that died in such a way... Lyanna asked after Elia and her children when I came to her… She thought it appropriate when she learned of their fate. A remembrance to the siblings Jon lost."

Robb stares.

"I-"

"Please Robb," she says, calmly, "Please believe. "

He looks at her. And though she never saw her brother again after that ill-fated trip South… She sees it. The man that this boy would turn into- the man that would become the first King of the North since the Dragons had come to Westeros. The Young Wolf cut down before his time, the man she never got to see. She sees that man in this boy of three and ten. She _sees_ what would have inspired the North and it hurts all the more that this boy would be cut down so young, would be taken from this world because of love.

"What must we do?"

* * *

 ***In any other fantasy story, Robb would be the gallant hero to win in the end. He is the righteous heir, the hopeful young man set to right the wrongs and injustice done to his family. But of course, with George R.R. Martin things are never that simple. And heroes don't always win.**

 **Also, side note, Florence + Machine's _Queen of Peace_ is so the anthem I'm choosing for Sansa. Listen to the song and let Florence's Welch chill you to the bone with sheer awesome!**


	8. Steel

_**Steel**_

" _There are three things extremely hard: steel, a diamond, and to know one's self," Benjamin Franklin.  
_

"You fear blades," said an accented voice, deep, but light.

Sansa Stark did not flinch at the sudden approach from the man she vaguely remembered. Her body may be young, full of inconvenient reactions and ungangly form, especially her face, so used to being expressionless, but her mind was sharp and cool as the hard woman she had become. So her only reaction was her fingertips twitching in the direction of the small blade she had in her sleeve. Turning, carefully away from Arya, she looked up at the slightly taller man, face placid.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, evenly. Her voice at times still startles her, the highness and the liveliness she tries to temper.

 _Lashing blades, meant to protect, meant to shield her, a lady, noble maiden. Instead, the shining knights smiled, baring teeth like lizard lions, gnashing teeth and glowing eyes taking in her pale, young body with eagerness. Bared before them like meat to the hounds. They hit sharp and true, swinging with increasing force as wild fire eyes stare on with growing, rapturous pleasure. The grin upon his face is something she loathes, for it is nothing like the forced, stilted smiles he had graced her when he had to be kind to her._

The man, Syrio, someone she could only vaguely recall looked to her, a single dark brow raised. She had only ever seen the man in passing, of course, so sure in her superiority over Arya to know that _she_ did not need a dancing master, as she had perfected all of the courtly dances favored by both North and South by the time she was nine name days. It was only later, in the last days that the still, quiet Arya had whispered about what he really been.

" _He wasn't exactly a dancing teacher," Arya had said, faintly sharpening her long thin blade, Needle. Her face is marble, her eyes hard moonstones, but something gives. Something so small that if Sansa had not been trained to do so, she would have missed it._

 _It is affection… Awe._

 _The awe of a child who loved the grand stories of Knights and exploits of warriors just as much as Sansa had. Only in a different way. Arya had loved the glory, the warriors, Nymeria the Warrior Queen… Sansa feels something there, a small, distinct longing for those innocent days, so long gone. She has changed so drastically these years past- but Sansa can never remove herself completely. Some part of her will always long for the Winterfell she long lost. For the sweet child, she had been and had to leave behind..._

 _Arya's other weapons lay around her on coarse fabric, short knives, both steel and dragon glass, thin long needles coated in something vividly violet(poison), so many that Sansa wagered they were more than three dozen blades, along with Needle and her second, larger sword that she had yet to name. A gift from one of their smiths, Arya's companion, if she recalled- Gendry. Gendry Waters, a bastard from King's Landing. The man that sometimes Brienne looks to and cannot bare. His look is Baratheon, his face shockingly like the well-dressed man Sansa vaguely remembers as the King's brother, Renly. But Sansa thinks him more handsome- for his face is kind, his manner even more so._

 _Sansa avoid looking at the bigger, thicker, nameless sword, instead of watching as her sister carefully passed her stone across her thin blade. It makes a sharp, familiar sound. She is reminded of her father, sharpening and cleaning Ice until it gleamed dark, a potent beauty that even she could not deny, much as she paid little mind to swords in those days. She misses the blade, and at times when she looks at Brienne's Oathkeeper part of her wishes to snatch it away from her sworn shield's capable hands. Especially whenever she is near Jaime Lannister._

 _For it will always be a desecration of her family's treasured blade. Even with the glittering lions removed, the rubies struck away, a plain, iron dire wolf replacing them… even if it is now used to defend House Stark. Or what little remains of it. A legacy of four-hundred years was struck away and reforged as a mockery and show of power. Red and black blade, gleaming the influence of the house on the Iron Throne. And that will always remind Sansa how their family had been torn apart._

" _Oh?" asked Sansa, blinking in surprise. It is the only change in her face._

" _He taught the Water Dance- A sword form. He said a true dancer could move across water without disturbing it. I wished I had learned it properly."_

 _Arya sword form is not inelegant. It is still… Silent and deadly. But it is not a dance. It is honed, tight, but fluid. As shadow, as constant and controlled. As far as Sansa could see, anyway, as someone ill-versed in such things. She only carries a small blade in her sleave as an emergency measure, not because she knew how to wield it well. She wished, at that moment to allow herself to furrow her brow, or twist her hands together in her lap, but she did not. She, instead only lifted a single brow._

" _Father was wise."_

 _Arya looked up, carefully, grey eyes narrowing._

" _He should have made you attend. Maybe you could have escaped with me."_

 _Sansa allows a small, still smile to pass upon her face. It is acceptable humorous to allow that little slip._

" _I would not have done it. A lady does not use swords. It is up to our father, our brothers or Lord Husband to protect us," it is an automatic, perfect answer, ladylike answer. She is too well trained to say anything but._

 _Arya looks at her, eyes relaxing. She doesn't even scowl at her answer, as the old Arya would have done. She just looked at her. Then she returned to her sword and did not speak again for the remainder of the night. Sansa returned to her needlework. She ignored how her hands trembled._

It had only been in passing mention, but Arya had seemed to become the girl that Sansa remembered, not the hard woman she had become and it was for that reason that she had made sure that Syrio would teach Arya to defend herself again. She was so young- just six name days- but it was important. _It was so important._ In this life, she begged her father to arm his daughters in the ways best suited to them. Sansa was no swordswoman and while she thought herself craven for it, she doubted she would ever be. She did not have the temperament, nor the will to reach for a blade. _Thin white scars across her back, raised and marred skin._ Arya would be even better prepared than in their first try at this life. Sansa herself could not deny she was curious, but uneasy at Arya's progress. She was so _young._ It was why she made an effort to come and see her sister, at least once a week in her busy schedule. With Robb better informed, she had even less time to herself, trying her best to hon her brother into the man she had never met...

Now, Sansa tried to avoid the urge to lick her lips, curling her fingers tightly in her long flowing sleeve instead at Syrio's question.

"You. You do not like blades. You flinched when I brought forth the true steel blades to check balance," said the Braavosi man, that brow still lifted, "Looked away with far eyes."

Sansa does not shift from foot to foot as her young body wished too. She only lifted a single brow at the man, mirroring his expression. _  
_

"Oh?"

"I am curious, why one daughter would wish to learn to learn and the other not. Especially since the North has such reputation for female warriors, rare here in Westeros. I have my answer. Fear."

"I am a Lady," she says, automatically, demurely, dipping her head in a courteous nod. It is a gesture to acknowledge how ridiculous his suggestion is, in a polite way, "It is not my place to touch a sword."

The Dancing Master, Syrio hums.

"Fear should never be ignored, girl. It should be conquered."

Sansa fights a grimace. Her face is unused to being placid, unused to her mask and her expressions slip far more than she would like. It is not natural for someone of ten to try and be expressionless or so poise all of the time. But if Margaery can master it by the time she is six and ten, then in this life so would Sansa.

"But fear keeps you alive," is her reply, distant, unaffected.

The Braavossi man laughs.

"Survival. Yes. One thing. But what of living? Fear stills you, keeps you is not living."

 _Be sweet and chirping, be pleasant and still. So much fear keeping me complacent._

She blinks.

 _Is all I want survival? What did that get me? A cold, cruel disposition. A sweet mask to show the world. I don't want to survive. I survived for so long…_

 _I wanted to_ _ **live.**_

"I am not like her," she gestures to her sister, standing so still, one leg folded into the other, arms wide with too heavy weights in each of her hands, teetering so unevenly. But there was a glint of delight to her eyes.

 _I did not realize I missed that until now._

Arya had been lost, a little, in the passing moons. Sansa could not help but feel guilty. Arya was too young to know why Jon was pulling away, not exactly by his own choice. She had ruined that, in telling him the truth. Sansa regrets it to some extent, but as always her brother rose to the occasion. Unlike before he was now burdened with a purpose- a knowing that made him determined to an unhealthy degree(not that Sansa was any better) and made him neglect. She felt for Arya, lost in the activity in the great game with nobody to turn to for reassurance. She needed this, not just to defend herself, but so Arya would know she was not forgotten. Arya needed this.

 _The Invisible Wolf… Will not fade into the cracks like before._

"I do not ask you to be her. I ask you to try in your own way. No one person dances the same. We know the same steps, the same movements, but each performance is unique. Yours."

The man stares at her, and Sansa stares back. She licks her lips, allowing herself that slip.

"I… I do fear blades. But can you take that away from me?"

The man stares at her before he smiles.

"I will make your sword part of you. Familiarity will take your fear away."

Sansa curls her fists in her long sleeve.

"I must attend my duties. But, I will ask my father to give me the morns before breaking my fast. Away from your lessons with Arya, so as your attention does not wane from her entirely. Is that acceptable?"

The man nods.

"Tomorrow, girl."

Something clenches in her stomach. It is not a pleasant feeling, but she is determined to push past it. If this will help her, help her let go- Than she must force herself to do it.

"Tomorrow."

She nods to him, before she leaves, smiling faintly at Arya who grinned excitedly back, her dark grey eyes shining with a mirth that Sansa is sad to think was ever rarely directed to her.

She is halfway back to her father's solar when she sees Jon and Robb, carrying an arm full of scrolls. She walks to them, hands extended as she takes half the burden from Robb. He stumbles, in surprise at first, before he readily lets her hold some of the scrolls in his hands. She hums, falling into step with her brothers.

"What's all this?" she asks, quietly.

Jon sighs, next to them.

"Father wants the yields of our current glass gardens from the last hundred years. He wants to make a final projection of the new glass gardens for the gathering of the North."

She hummed.

"I suppose I will have my hands full in the next few weeks," she murmured, wondering if she would have time to go to Syrio. Perhaps she would need to wake before dawn, instead of at dawn to attend to her duties.

Sansa pushed back a sigh.

"Years, you mean. We only have so long before winter is here" was Robb's flippant, response. He sounded exhausted and quite put out.

Sansa felt her lips twitch.

"Have I burden you, Robb?" she asked, nearly laughing.

"With too much, Sansa. Tell me again, something good."

Bright, Tully eyes, the same ones in her own face, looked to her. They were not all together cheerful, but held a shade of darkness… Her own doing, she guessed. But it was not jaded as her own nor father's, simply more understanding of the world they lived in.

"Every battle he ever engaged in," she says, simply, "Was won."

She does not have the heart to say what those victories _cost her._

"Look at that Snow, a great general."

Jon rolls his eyes.

"Yes, yes. But who was the youngest Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?"

"Must you poster?" was her question.

"Sansa," said Robb seriously, "We are boys. It is in our nature."

At that, she could not help but let out a laugh. It felt so strange to laugh, in her mind, but in body, her body of ten was quite used to it. It filled the corridor, loud, unrestrained, had her horribly flinching in some ways, but felt so _good_ that she did not temper herself. Jon and Robb joined her, and like many things in this beautiful, glorious past, had tears threatening to spill from her eyes at the sound of their laughter. It was… Foreign a sound to her, from herself, from them, _together,_ and she is heartbroken at the remembrance that they never met again after they parted from each other at fifteen. She had forgotten their friendship, how deep that brotherly connection had been…

At how close they had all been, before the King's court had come to Winterfell…

"Jon," she said, losing tact and any pretty words, "You must speak to Arya again. Spend time with her."

Jon stumbled, nearly dropping all of his scrolls. He looked back at her, squinting his grey eyes.

"Why? Arya's fine, and I have so much to do-"

Sansa stepped forward, taking his scrolls from him.

"She misses you. Duty is important, my brother, but so is Family. She doesn't understand and suspect she will not understand until we tell her. But that won't be for a while yet. She only sees that you're pulling away."

Jon stares at her, lower lip trembling.

"But-"

"Snow," and that's Robb, dropping his scrolls altogether, reaching over to clasp his shoulder, "She has a point."

Jon gives a sigh.

"It's unfair when you both are of one mind," is his only response, before he gives a nod, and starts making his way back the way they had come.

Sansa only smiles, pleased. Work they may have too, hard and long, but neglect each other she could not stand. It was such a divide that had made her hesitate to be parted from the Queen and Joffrey… And subsequently caused her greatest horror. She would not allow such a history to repeat itself. Robb lets out a chuckle when Jon is out of their sight.

"It is all sorts of frightening on how well you can get him to do things."

Sansa looks at the scrolls scattered at his feet with a raised brow in response. Robb readily picks them up, stacking them in a neat little pile.

"And now I follow. Very odd to be the eldest all my life and suddenly not be," is Robb's continued musing, looking at her.

She can only raise another brow at Robb, both shooting to her hairline. He gives a nod before he sighs out:

"I feel but a child to you, Sansa."

"It something that I cannot enjoy, sweetling. I know not what caused this. All I can be is grateful," she whispers, quietly.

She starts to walk, again, towards the solar.

"Tell me something else… Something good."

He always asked. Never for the bad… Just the good of the future. He wanted to see the good in the world, even after she told him of the bad that was possible. She admired that in Robb, in the true… _Goodness,_ her brother held.

"I believe he was deeply in love. Before he died. Very, very deeply in love."

Robb can not quite smile. But there is a hint there, a small twitch of his lips that cannot fully form.


	9. Strength

_**Strength**_

" _The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection," Thomas Paine._

The sound of steel against steel has something in Sansa's stomach twisting, sharply, a feeling so strong she feels bile rise in her throat, crawling its way with a burn. It wasn't an unfamiliar sound. In fact, until recently, Sansa had thought the sound so commonplace, so integral to the Force of the North that she had dismissed it. Hardly ever registered it as men and woman trained in vain to try and save humanity from the death brought by the Second Long Night. She knows not, now, in the body of child how that sound had become so sinister within the light of the sun she so long missed.

Perhaps, in her body of twenty name days, she had been able to suppress her ill feelings so much better, honed, a cool mask that she had earned. Perhaps in the wake of the peace of the Winterfell before _they_ came had allowed these fears, these anxieties buried down deep to rise to the surface. To plague her more vividly.

Sansa found that none of these reasons really mattered to her. All she knew is that her jaw is clenched so tightly she felt the ache all the way to her temples. Breathing through her nose was soft and forcibly slow, and her hands, were clenched in a mummer's show of a demure clasp in her lap. Knuckles white, hands trembling with the strain. Her eyes blinked rapidly, the memories of steel against her delicate flesh, of moments of the camp of the North against the Others muddled together in rapid succession:

 _The sound of steel against her flesh was too familiar to her. The sharp whistle of the sword as it was swung rang in Sansa's ears, followed by the dull thud of the flat of the blade smacking against her bare back. It rang in her ears again and again. The series of blows was a mixture of a dull, deep-seated ache that rattled her teeth in her skull and the sharp pain of the sharp sides of the sword pressing into her skin. She breathed deeply as she dared, trying not to move too much as the blows kept coming, as she felt her blood start to well up, a hot sticky trickle down her back._

 _She was strangely numb to this at this point. Even the showing of her breasts to green eyes made her feel… Nothing. The shame of before, the sheer_ _ **hatred**_ _at this forced humiliation was gone. All she felt absently was the tears that she still shed as the blade hit against her back again and again, an echo of the sensation of her blood going down her back. She cannot stop the tears. It a reaction of her body against pain, natural and all too sweet for him. He watches it all, a look of faked solemnity as he proclaims her a victim of traitor's blood._

 _Sansa stares wordlessly ahead, through her tears, voicing her hurts with small whimpers and moans that brought those green eyes new light, new delight at her pain. She faked it, too numb to feel anything really, but knowing too well what her part was. Staying silent made Joffrey furious, made him push his Kingsguard into swinging their blades harder. So she performs for him, makes the noises, just another mask she wears to protect herself. Eyes, hundreds of eyes of the court stared at her, some looked away, but most did not. Most looked with hungry eyes at her rosy nipples, curiously morbid and awed at the way her once smooth and creamy flesh of her back was turn molten and purple, shades of green and yellow of healing bruises fading, the red inflamed flesh of ill healing, the crimson of blood flowing down it all in delicate trails._

Sansa forced herself to blink, to breath deeply.

 _Brienne's Oathkeeper landed harshly against the neck of a Wright, cleaving it cleaning from its shoulders. It was a dull, cracking sound. Sansa felt the urge to wrinkle her nose in disgust, as chips of frozen blood fell onto her face, as she watched those unnatural eyes glow blue and cold. Brienne smashes its head beneath her large boot in the following movement. She brushes off the blood with impatient, gloved fingertips, trying not to scream as Jaime Lannister gripped her arm, pushing her harshly off of her mount in a desperate move. She lands on her feet, not quite nimble, stumbling away from her nameless horse. His lone hand is quick to reach for his blade, drawing it with a sharp sound that rings for a fraction of a second before he hacks into the incoming Wrights who had attacked her horse in horrifying quickness._

 _The poor beast is spared but sports long red gashes across its side. Sansa moves forward and smacks it across its rump, sending it riding ahead as soon as she assesses that it would not be able to carry any of them to safety. She hopes it makes it back to the gates, leagues away. Jon and Arya alike would recognize the horse she had begun to favor if anything. Around her, the outer people of the camp gather as many weapons as they can, torches and axes and swords. Women and men alike come forward, sounding alarms at the newest attack. She is thankful she had chosen to keep the children within the relative safety of the walls of Winterfell._

" _Their patrols are getting too close to the outer-camp," cried Brienne, lips red and chapped from the cold so common now, part in anger, "You should not have risked yourself, my Queen!"_

 _Sansa bites back the snarl in her throat as she watches the monsters come in greater numbers. Her trips to Wintertown within the walls of Winterfell to distribute supplies were commonplace, but it was not_ _ **enough.**_ _She knew that the people outside of the walls resented those within, unrest clear and desertion a problem that they could not afford. But there were so_ _ **many.**_ _In its semi-ruined state, there was no way that they could house every person who was fleeing from beyond the remains of the Wall. The Free-Folk, those few survivors from the Night's Watch, not to mention the Houses from across the Seven Kingdoms and the High Queen's own army that had all gathered to Winterfell as a means to stop the Second Long Night. She had begun to go out into the camps in hopes of boosting morale and settling some of the unrest, delivery supplies, and assurances._

" _You know as much as I that this was necessary," she tells her sworn shield, her voice, for once, dips in frustration. She loathes to explain herself, least of all to anyone who isn't Jon or Dany or Tyrion._

 _She knew her limitations as 'Queen'. She knew her title was empty and pending. She knew that she was simply a symbol- the eldest, 'true-blooded' surviving child of Eddard Stark- the gentle child so cruelly kept away from the North. A banner to rabble about, to cry and cheer for. But her duties amongst the people were the largest. High Queen Daenerys, bless her gentle heart, was constantly called foreigner with her commanding and unrelenting fortitude. Too strange, too out of the bounds of normal and acceptable femininity of most of Westeros(_ _ **And how Sansa admired her for it**_ _). Jon, though beloved, was a man and meant to be at the forefront of the war effort in the eyes of many. Such a duty was something that fell to her shoulders, she who despite the circumstances of the recapture of Winterfell, was seen as the gentle Westeros lady, if of the Northern variety._

" _The Wench is right, your Grace," said Jaime, his voice, quiet and subdued, "You should no longer make these rounds."_

 _Sansa looks to him, watches as he lifts his forged, steel hand, pointing across the snow._

 _Blue eyes, not of a Wright stare across the field, a little too tall for a man, even one of giant's descent. Sansa feels her blood turn to ice, at the sight of the Other who commands this platoon of Wrights. Hands tremble a fraction for a second, but she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood, copper, and iron, hot and almost sweet in her mouth._

 _ **I am warm and alive yet.**_

" _No," she mummers, half to herself, half to her sworn shields as their blades sing against the frigid air, "That is exactly why I can never stop."_

 _She straightens her already straight shoulders, hand half clasped to the dragon glass dagger within her sleeve. She breathes the frigid air, so cold that it burns her lungs. She_ _ **relishes**_ _that burn relishes how it signaled that she was still_ _ **alive**_ _._

" _GLORY FOR KING JON, GLORY FOR QUEEN DAENERYS!" She cries, clear and loud, deep from the pit of her stomach. She has no intention of using her blade unless as a last resort, but she understands the theatrics of raising her own blade high above her head, unsheathing it quickly, watching it glitter in the firelight, "GLORY FOR THE KING AND QUEEN!"_

 _The resulting cry of the campers, despite everything, lighten her heart. They roar, like direwolves in the wind, crying for their King and Queen. When they call her name as well, she is pleased, the simple, twisted bronze circlet on her head never lighter. Iron, steel, fire and dragon glass sing as they are raised in the air in a cacophony that promised death to the creatures coming to slaughter them all._

" _GLORY FOR THE KING AND QUEENS!"_

She felt half caught between her memories and the display in front of her. Ice, in all its glory, a dark gleaming beauty, slashed through the air with deadly force. It was such a large blade, so long and board, that in most hands, she knew it would be swinging, slashing mess. No better than a slab of iron or a club. In her father's hands, however, after nearly five and twenty years, Ice was no slab of iron to slash about. It was controlled, precise movements, long reaching and powerful strikes even to her somewhat untrained eye. He was power and control, precision and heavy blows. Against Syrio's shorter, thinner blade, it was a large contrast. Syrio _danced,_ about, his untamed blade an extension of himself, a limb that weaved and dipped between the harsher strikes of Ice. He was precision and grace, beauty and death in every light, moving a step.

They hardly touched, as Syrio danced around her father, but when they did the sound of steel against steel raised the fine hair on the nape of her neck.

 _Breath Sansa,_ a voice, a voice that sounded suspiciously like her King, older and soothing, rang through her head. She took a steadying breath, through her nose and forced her hands, clasped in front of her, not to tremble, _Breath Sansa,_ a different voice. Higher, steady, the woman Arya had become. Firm and even, Sansa took another breath. It is merely an echo, a comfort to remind her when she had been among people touched with horrors beyond what she had ever expected in her life as a Lady.

She takes strength in those, in the memory of people lost. While she has gained the innocent version of them, the last of her family, the one to stand through their own horrors were forever lost… She was glad for it. So glad to be back in Winterfell and prevent their fates.

But she thinks part of her will always mourn them no matter what.

"Not bad, Eddard Stark," called Syrio, smiling, his white teeth a startling contrast to his darker and tanned skin. He lowered his sword, his nameless blade and gave a flourishing bow.

Her father said not a word, lowering Ice, his breath rapid as he nodded his agreement to the Former First Sword of Braavos. The only other indication of his pleasure was the slight twitch of his lips to signify his enjoyment, he returned the bow, politely with a shallower movement. Not out of disrespect, but because her father was really that out of breath and could hardly bend at the waist. Arya, beside her, had, unconsciously as the spar had progressed, leaned forward, her grey eyes wide and her small mouth slightly parted in awe. She vibrated in her seat, hands twitching in her impatience.

"That was amazing!" cried Ayra, lunging to her feet. Sansa, despite her own feelings, could not help the smile that appeared on her face at her sister's enthusiasm. Grey eyes sparkled, pale lips parted in awe, and Sansa saw a ghost of the woman she would become, softer than her memories, but just as achingly fierce and beautiful, "Sansa, wasn't that amazing?"

"Yes," she spoke and noted with relief that her voice showed no indication of her distress, she was getting better at tempering herself. She stood, brushing her hands gently against her soft spun trousers, "That was very well done, Master Syrio, Father."

"Too tense, yes?" asked Syrio, pointedly, as he turned to her. He was still smiling, but his dark eyes were so intent, so focused on her nearly flawless mask, "Arya leaned forward to see better. You leaned back."

Sansa felt the need to scowl. The Braavosi man read people so incredibly well and despite her best efforts, she was no exception. It was part, she was sure, of being such a good swordsman. Such a good teacher. But it was not something that Sansa enjoyed nonetheless, so used in the last years of her adult life to be able to hide her true emotions from anyone, even those close to her. The fact that Syrio could see so through her fragile mask bothered her more then she cared to admit. If one man could see her, whose is to say that more would not?

Her vulnerability in face of the likes of Petyr Baelish or someone just as observant as him. She knew she was fighting her own body's natural reactions, knew that she was allowed to be more relaxed in the general safety of Winterfell… But…Part of her, most of her, still relished the safety of her courtesies, of the control that her captivity of the Lannisters and later Petyr and Ramsey had forced her to adopt.

"Sansa?" and that was Father, his mouth forming a frown.

She bites back a sigh.

"I never expected steel to sound like that," she replied, calmly, "It unsettled me."

Understanding was in her father's eyes at her calm admission, while Syrio raised a brow.

"Though you are long way from using live steel, Sansa Stark, you must not let this hold you back," Syrio, deliberately sheathed his sword, before he went to his pack. He removed two short daggers, simple but beautiful things made of delicately wrought handles and slender blades. They were beautifully simple, without true subjects of adornment, just lines in patterns that she vaguely recognized as Braavosi.

He extended them to her, handle first and sheathed. Reluctantly, she took them both. They were heavier than the dragon-glass dagger she had used to keep in her sleeve, but lighter then the current steel dagger she had in her boot. _I perhaps need to get my own instead of some reject from the Smithy._

"Run them against each other. Hear the sound. Let it fall away from you."

Sansa licked her suddenly parched lips.

"I will ruin your fine blades."

Syrio gave a casual shrug.

"I care not. Do as I say. Girl!" he said, turning to Arya. Arya was bouncing on the balls of her feet, eager, "Take out your blade. We shall see if such a demonstration of Westeros sword-forms versus Water-Dance has taught you anything."

Arya beamed, already retrieving her wooden practice sword. Sansa took that as her own prompt and sat back on the floor, daggers in hand. She had only had a handful of lessons with Syrio, none of which involved the actual use of swords, even the wooden training ones, but rather instead conditioning of her body to support the Water Dancing form as she was much older than Arya and 'set' in her ways. Most of it had to do with speed and endurance of holding a blade without tiring and her balance(the one thing she was better at then Arya at this point), but some had to do with Syrio's vague knowledge over her fear of swords.

Her most difficult one to date was to hold actual swords to choose a sword from Syrio's rather extensive collection to find something suitable for her (A sword would eventually be created for her, or so said her father in regards to her and Arya, but only when they had mastered the form to some extent to take into account their physical ages). Her hand did not stop trembling for the entire process and Syrio had not said a word to it, only stared her down as she went through blade after blade. She thinks he had pitied her but had forced her to go through every blade until she had found one, longer than most blades, but needle thin and feather-light in her hand. It had taken all she had not to throw the blade away from her, as Syrio had nodded his acceptance.

Something about this exercise, however, felt more terrible.

Breathing deeply through her nose, Sansa ran the steel daggers against each other. The sound, though softer then the sound of two full-sized swords slamming against each other, was similar enough. Nearer to her than the clash of Syrio's and her Father's spar. It sent something down her spine, a cold trail of spiders, made her stomach turn. Sansa forced herself to make the sound again, allowing herself a frown and furrowed brow of concentration at each sharp swipe. Sweat beaded on her brow. She forced herself again, holding herself as still as possible to prevent herself from flinching.

"You did not tell me you feared blades," said her father, calmly, as he sat next to her.

He crossed his legs, a heavy bundle slung over his shoulder and Ice in hand. He did not look to her, only began the process of inspecting the ancestral sword with care, hands running along the blade's flat, trying to find imperfections in the dark gleaming steel after the spar. Part of her wondered, as she watched her father set to clean and polish the blade if her Uncle Brandon would have been as meticulous with the care of the blade. What little she knew of him, made her think of a man that would have been ill-suited to be Warden of the North, a Wild Wolf. His foolish actions, in her mind, to challenge the Prince to a death battle over his sister only assured such a thing to her. She thinks, despite how horrible it was, that it was best that it had fallen to her father to rule the North in his stead.

Sansa made a deliberate move to look away from her father as he turned to look at her, focusing on the gleaming steel in her hands. It was beautiful, in a strange way, these instruments. Gleaming beauty, flawless shine, and careful craft that even she could admire. But she knew all too well the pain such beauty could inflict. She sets her jaw and she ran the blades together again, harsher than before. Sparks flew.

"It did not seem important," she says, quietly.

And it hadn't. It hadn't been important in her future-past, she had mustered through it, nearly unaware of it. _So much for her to do, so little time to linger in anything, let alone her silly fears._ Now it would have to be put aside again. Sansa was nothing if not good at wearing her masks and soldiering through things like this. Her father sighs, a heavy gust of emotion.

"It is important to me."

Warmth came to her chest, tears to her eyes at the simple words. Her father reminded her of her King- a reflection as before her King had reminded her constantly of Father. Simple assurance of the love and care she had so missed in her time away from the North. She pushed back all sentiment with another harsh drag of steel against steel.

 _Later. In the dark of your bedroom, where you can properly reveal in this love. Not yet Sansa, not today. You still have so much to do._

"Father… I assure you, this is just one more thing for me to do."

He hummed.

"It is not something you have to do alone. Sansa," he whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder, "Allow me to bare this burden with you as well. It is just one more thing to share between us, is it not?"

She blinks. Opens her mouth to protest, and do so violently.

 _The lone wolf dies,_ and that is pure Bran in her mind.

She tenses before she lets herself slump. Wordlessly, though not without cursing herself for her very human weakness, Sansa presses herself against her father's side. She runs the blade against each other again. It is not a cure-all. The sound eats at her mind and makes her stomach turn still. But it eases something in her all the same. Her father's warmth is not all curing.

But it is enough.

She runs those blades together while Arya learns the proper steps, and then she is taught how to care and sharpen blades with those daggers. Syrio does not take them back, even after they are sharpened to perfection. Instead, he instructs her to keep them close and when she has time to run them together again and again. He even gives her a belt, to hold them to her person. To care for them as she cares for her hair or her dress. Reluctantly, Sansa agrees, before she leaves her sister to her much longer, and through lesson, both her and her Father leaving more or less at the same time, only pausing for a moment to their chambers to at least remove some sweat and changing out of their training clothes, Sansa herself relishing the change back from her well-tailored breeches into a proper dress.

Despite everything, she feels more comfortable in her dresses. She, over the last few moons, had, as a sort of side project, had taken to remove any traces of childish influence from her wardrobe. Sansa, child though she may appear to be, was very decidedly _not_ one. She made a point to keep the clothing appropriate, never making anything too daring nor too adult, loathed as she wished too. But she had at least taken to remove the influence of her childish adoration for the South. She redid her image as she had in the future-past, taken in the influence of Northern designs of gowns, of patterns of wild wolves and simpler, more geometric stitchwork. Straighter cuts, covering and secure, tight and regal and more taciturn. Jewelry non-existence save for a silver locket with the running direwolf of her sigel and a ring with the same design with the leaping trout of the Tully banner added a ring her mother had made for her at her seventh name-day, that fit on Sansa's tiny thumb.

Her love of silk and lace, though present, was delegated to only dinner gowns meant for feasts instead of everyday use. Her delicate slippers discarded for well worn, supple boots more appropriate for the outdoors of the North. She took care to dress well, as always, aware of the image she projected. A grey gown almost white, soft and rich velvet and delicately spun linen and wool, in layers meant to protect her against the cold, stitched with running wolves( _her family's wolves, all along her hem_ ), with blue winter roses, the exact shade of Tully blue stitched carefully among the wolves. She had arranged her hair mostly down, a careful tumble of fire pulled back in a braid around her head, a mimic of the simple crown she used to wear.

She looked… Young. Painfully so, as she carefully assesses herself in the mirror. All that looks at her is the sweet bird that left Winterfell to die. For a moment she felt a disconnect to her reflection. Sansa looks at her round cheeks, at her large doe eyes, and at the cherubic plump lips. And she feels lost and wondering if it had all been a dream, after all. But then she sees pieces of herself, a hint of her long neck that looked odd in a child, the slight strength of her cheekbones from around the layer of childish fat. And her mannerisms helped to remove the child she had been. But her reflection, to Sansa, was just another mask she had donned. Just another one to use to her best advantage to correct the future that was possible.

She steps out of her room after she had carefully pinned her long, grey fur cloak, over her shoulders, touching the large snarling direwolf pin that holds the cloak against her. She was placing her fine fur lined gloves when her father left his rooms, changed into the doublet she had created for him, a large mother wolf stitched snarling upon his breast.

"Only a few Houses left," says her father and she sees that his arm extended. It is almost comical how much taller he is than her. But she reminds herself that come a few years she would be only a few fingers span shorter, "I expect them to be within our Walls by nightfall. The feast shall begin, and on the morrow, we will begin discussions."

She takes his arm, strong and what had been a distant memory to her. Sometimes she is overwhelmed by it. But at the moment, she is only feeling settled.

"Indeed. Any further word from King's Landing? A delegation perhaps to oversee the changes in the North?"

"Nothing of the sort, Sansa. The King's Hand has declared this a local matter completely, with the approval of the King," spoke her Mother, beyond regal in a pure blue gown, stitching a mixture of red and grey of her sigels, with direwolves and jumping trouts made along all of the dress.

Sansa admired her mother's work and the contrast her fair Mother made against her Father's simple grey and white attire, as she delicately threaded her arm through his arm. She felt something ease at the gesture. The estrangement between her parents had distressed her, especially in the wake of what she knew was a happy relationship, broken so horribly as it had. _One of the few I know of._

"However, I received word from my Father, your grandfather. He says he wishes to better discuss any changes to our trading agreements in person. I believe he's also using this excuse to make my brother Edmund take a little charge of Riverrun."

"It's been so long since Grandfather has come," says Robb, cheerfully, extending his arm to Sansa. She moves away from her parents, and notes with amusement that her brother was dressed almost identical to their Father, save for a single line of stitchwork in of red and blue geometric work of around the collar of his doublet, with Grey-Wind stitched howling against his breast. Some of her finest work- even as when she had had a steadier hand.

"I don't remember him," she mentions, as for her, it had been perhaps four and ten years since she had seen him last. She had vague memories at best.

"He was tall and red of hair," said Jon quietly and she smiled as he threaded his arm through her's. His doublet was pure white( _he would never take the Black_ ) and the stitchwork on Ghost was so fine, done in a slightly darker shade of white that she could not help but beam at how well he wore it.

"Well I've never met him," chimed Bran, cheerful and voice boisterous. He was so _young,_ she thought with a sigh. Summer was on his breast, stoic and the calmest depicted of the wolves.

"Yes, you have. We just don't remember," said Arya, rolling her eyes. She wore her own doublet as well, looking smart and fiercely comfortable.

Sansa had provided the girl with a few dresses because part of her would always wish for her sister to try and look somewhat like her station demanded. But Arya had yet to wear them as far as Sansa could see, the young girl content in trousers and doublets.

 _Some things never change._

"Everyone hush. We must look smart."

So they did, a pack, all matching clothing that screamed of both wealth and of unity. Before the Gates of Winterfell, they set a table of bread and salt, of water and wine, waiting as they had for the past few days for the rest of the Houses of the North to come into their protection, to attend their Lord's command. Sansa, wondered, as all of the delegations of the last Houses of the North came past the gates of Winterfell if this was how Robb felt when he called the banners. The sense of both anticipation and fear, the calculated way she made note of their attire and form of transport, of the number of their entourage. To see all the banners of the North within its walls was both heartening and made her feel so tired in that moment. While the majority of the Northern houses had arrived well in a timely manner, the lack of urgency of their Warden being held captive had lead to a few stragglers.

When she sees _him,_ it takes a moment for her to steady herself, to remember that it cannot possibly be him, as she watches the sigil of vivid red against pink. _Our blades are sharp._ Once, those had been her words as well, if by force, but her words nonetheless. _Winter is Coming. Hear Me Roar. I have had many words, and they have all shaped me to some extent._ And it isn't until he dismounts, next to his traitorous father, that she realizes the differences. Because Lord Bolton smiles at the young man, and he is much too old to be Ramsey, as he looked to be six and ten already. Tall and broad, standing in the sunlight, she realizes that it is the brother slain by another. Perhaps she is colored by her memories of his bastard brother, but she thinks him softer looking, she would say kind if she trusted anything with the name or connection of Bolton.

She blinks, rapidly as she watches Domeric Bolton shift uneasily on his feet, looking about Winterfell with interest. His eyes, light and almost silvery, are keen, the pull of his mouth open in what looks like appreciation. His hair, dark and long, hangs handsomely and easily past his shoulders. When his father touches his shoulders for his attention, she sees happiness in Roose's face and a smile upon Domeric's, returning his father's expression. She blinks, having never seen such an expression on the Lord of Dreadfort face so… At ease.

 _Ramsey more then likely murdered him. Oh so said Theon. I must save him and keep Ramsey as a bastard with no resources._

She made a point not to stare at him, nor his father. It did not mean she was unaware as they made their way to the Stark Family and watched as they made the exchange of salt and bread. She nearly sneered in the wake of that, but made no outward reaction, simply dipping her head politely as they passed, a long line of other bannermen needing to do the same meaning that the courtyard was too full for them to linger. Though she did note that Domeric cast a lingering glance to her. _It is logical_ , she thought, _for him to look at me. I am the eldest girl child of his liege lord, it would be odd for him not to think of me as a potential bride. Especially since father has made_ _ **no**_ _inclinations of a Southern marriage for me._ But the man was six and ten and she ten namedays, his interest was more a curiosity than sexual attraction. She took comfort in that- and that his words would never be her's again.

In the end, the Boltons were one of many and they passed with no incident. But for Sansa, something eased in her stomach to see them being so passive figures. _And I will keep them there._

The rest of the Houses of the North came, and with them, they adjourned inside, heading to their rooms to prepare for the feast that her mother and she had arranged for the night of all the North within the walls of Winterfell. Sansa shed all of her attire, applying light perfume and re-did her hair into something a little more elaborate, held up by steel combs of snarling wolves, something she vaguely remembers ignoring most of the time before they had been taken away in King's Landing by Cersei. Her dress was a fine silk one, but simpler than her welcoming gown on purpose, just white, pure and threaded with the grey of her house in geometric patterns and grey Myrish lace.

She leaves her room to spot poor Arya, in a dress, loose and free following. It is a match to Sansa's, save for less lace, and a touch more ribbons that Sansa had thought would look handsome on a child of six-namedays. Arya's expression, however, leads her to believe that she rather be back in her trousers.

"Mother made me," she says by explanation, tugging unhappily at her long, loose sash, that was supposed to be tied neatly, around the girl's thin waist.

Sansa finds herself smiling, a true one of sheer delight at how free and uncensored her sister was at this age. She walks forward, hands reaching. She fixes the sash, careful to keep it from constricting Arya, tying it smartly in a bow, before she let it fall against her sister. Careful, her hands flutter, smoothing down curls and slightly out of place hair.

"You look lovely."

"Don't lie. You're the pretty one."

The accusation is plain, the self-depriment even more so. Sansa only turns her sister around. Grey eyes look at her, wide and soft. The hurt of childish jealousy and years of tension, already present between them so early in their lives… Sansa wonders at foolish youth. At how time changed your perspective.

 _"I love you," says Arya, quietly, hardly audible over the din of the scattering camp, "All I ever wanted was for you to love me back despite how different we were."_

 _Sansa does not stop the tears then, at the whispered words of her little sister._

 _"I love you too, Arya, I always did, I was just insanely jealous of everything you were, are. Beautiful, fierce and wild. A true Northern woman. Everything I couldn't be."_

"If I recall, Father is quick to say how much you look of Aunt Lyanna."

Dark brows furrow.

"So?"

"She was said to be beautiful. How can you not be pretty as well?" she reasons, carefully.

Arya looks at her, really looks at her. As always, Sansa sees the wisdom in those grey eyes, a certain ability to see the truth. She smiles, slight, there, and Sansa's heart is lighted. They find their siblings a little way's down the corridor, dressed as they are in even finer clothing then the day, standing about to enter the Great Hall in something that gives semblance to ceremony. When her parents emerge, well paired, Sansa stands between Robb and Jon, arm looped through their arms as Arya and Bran settle behind her, little Rickon she knows, is already in bed, and Theon is already at the feast as per his own request.

"Sansa?" that's Robb, uneasily next to her, walking carefully behind their parents.

"Yes?" she mummered, softly.

He blinked, his arm curled around her's as they made their way to the Great Hall. Jon was stoic and uneasy with the thought of being allowed equality so outwardly, but it had been at her mother's and her own, insistence.

"He called the banners? All of them?" he was careful to censor his words, as Arya and Bran walked behind them.

The awe in his voice, the disbelief, made her almost smile.

"Yes. For his father's sake."

Robb smiled and laughed, shakily.

"It feels like it would have been so much for one of five and ten to handle."

"He became King. Make that what you will.

Robb's hold on her arm tightened. Jon, next to them, just sighed.

"So did his brother."

She allows a cool smile.

"As did their sister. Circumstances lead to everything, and they handled their burden as best they could."

"Some more than others," mummered Robb, furrow tightening.

"Hush. No frowns when we enter the Hall. Please."

Robb, young as he was, did a fair job of schooling his expression as they entered the Hall. Sansa had seen it full, many times in her time leading Winterfell with the High Queen and King, but there was a difference, she thinks, in the general air. The roar upon their entrance was like thunder- shaking the very walls, the majority of the people looked both well fed and well dressed, and their eyes… Their eyes she did not see the same despair she had so commonly seen on the expressions of people. She does not realize she had felt the same despair until it is lightened by the sheer amount of fierce people she sees before them, alive, full and unharmed by the Southern War. All of them cheering for her father, for their Lord, the man they would have gone to war for. The man they respected and would follow more than an untested boy.

 _There is hope. The North is not yet divided. Be damn anything South of Riverrun. Dany can cause them all to feel her might, I will guard these borders for the Queen. Winter is Coming._

 _And it will meet us all with both fire and blade in hand._


	10. Gold

_**Gold**_

" _All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost," J. R. R. Tolkien_

"...be it as it may, I believe we should still address the situation of Winterfell," started the Master of the Coin, voice cool and smooth.

The look on his face and the way he shifted in his chair is what makes Jaime Lannister start to pay attention to the somewhat mundane and tedious turn of the Small Council. It is a sharp look, hiding something that is plain to Jaime, what it was, he couldn't say. To Jaime, Baelish's voice always sounded oily, always a little too smug for a whore monger and an upstart who had somehow weaseled his way to the Small Council. Or so said Cersei, who would never dignify the minor lord with even a passing glance. For his part, Jaime thought it was perhaps that for a brief period of time, Jaime had known Petyr Baelish of the Fingers as a boy.

And he had been a bit of a little shit then, too, if only less better at hiding it. Jaime had not known the appeal that the fair Tully sisters had placed on the small, quiet boy with too arrogant an air, who claimed to anyone who would listen to be capable of taking the maidenheads of both of the girls. And still did to anyone who would ask him. Perhaps it was because he was just that annoying, with his lilting voice and smug attitude. Either way, any noise from the man made Jaime want to cut off his ears.

But it also made him stop staring at the tapestry across from him, imagining how nice it would be for an assassin to pop out of it so he could do more than stand in full armor, and pay better attention to the discussion in front of him.

"Winterfell?" the King, said, bewildered. In his surprise, his strong wine, a sour ghastly thing that it was, spilled down his large chest. The King had little taste, and that was definitely reflected in choice of wine, no regard to flavor, but rather only on potency. The closer it was to poison, the better it was in the King's mind.

 _It was an odd day_ , reflected Jaime, _For the King to be so gracious to allow his presence amongst the Small Council._ It had something to do, no doubt, with the situation up North. Frankly, Jaime gave neither a damn nor care to what the frostbitten nose of the likes of Eddard Stark did with the rest of the Northern wild men. But the King, more in love with the thought of his fellow fosterling then any sane man, was more than a little anxious to do something resembling ruling in the wake of the apparent distress that the North was soon to find themselves in. He had made a show of attending more meetings, at least once a week, much to Jaime's boredom, but it was also a rest from having to listen outside the King's chambers. He did, however, had to wait on the King's increasing questions of his 'brother's' goings on in the North.

 _Winter was Coming,_ had been the opening line in the Warden of the North's address to the King, along with some other precise mathematical calculations from the part of their Maester, as well as preliminarily notes from the Citadel of Oldtown to verify the grown concern. Something that his lovely sister had frowned at, holding the stolen letter within her fair hand. She had read it aloud to him, but Jaime had been more than a little distracted how her fingertips had trailed down his bare chest, going lower and lower. All he knew for certain was that Cersei was ' _Uneasy to see what those savages are plotting.'_

"Yes, your Grace," said Littlefinger, a small smile appearing on his face, "It concerns the sudden shift of their need for stockpiling. I fear that it will stagnate the economy."

 _It seems someone else is concerned to what the North is plotting, not just you sweet sister._

"The North has the full support of the Crown, Ned knows what he's doing," dismissed the King, waving his great meaty hand, thrashing about the wine from his goblet.

Jaime entertained himself by watching the awkward shift in the two younger Baratheon brothers. Renly, better schooled in the matters of presentation, only furrowed his brows for a second, but Stanis, unwilling and uncompromising, visibly grit his teeth at the loved remark from the King. The jealousy that Eddard Stark inspired between the three brothers always astounded Jaime, but also made him wish to laugh. If he had not been standing guard, he would have.

"Your Grace, perhaps Petyr is wise to issue caution," said Jon Arryn, carefully, voice firm.

Despite himself, Jaime felt his brows raise in surprise. _The old Falcon is questioning his oh so honorable fosterling?_

"Jon- Jon you dare insinuate-" the King threw his goblet aside in a predictable moment of fury, pushing back violently from the table. It skidded forward due to the Baratheon's monstrous strength and the goblet smashed against the wall, the gold bending, the small jewels chipping, the dark wine spilling across the stones.

"My King, sit down," came the sharp reply.

Jaime took a step back, hand on his sword's hilt. Robert, the first of his name, again, predictably narrowed in on the Hand of the King, stepping forward in a menacing tilt, fists clenched. It would have been more menacing if the sheer amount of fat that rested around his stomach wasn't there, jiggling as it did. Due to his considerable height, and long unkempt beard, the movement had some merit. But of course, the Hand of the King did not even flinch at the rage so potent in a boy he had practically raised.

 _And what a fine job he did._

"I insinuate no such thing. Ned does indeed know what he is doing. However, the implications of the entire North gathering for the sake of a harsh winter is something that we all must take into account."

"Indeed," came the feathery, high voice as of the Master of the Whispers, "My birds are few in the North, loyal and uncompromised as the people of the North tend to be. So distrusting if strangers… But there are plenty enough still. And they whisper, oh how they whisper."

The King, face red, sat, thunderously down. Jaime took a step forward, hand on his hilt, prepared to act on any order. The King's recent and new cupbearer, the son of his Uncle Kevan, Lancel all but launched himself forward with a new goblet, wine-skin ready to refill for the King. The boy was barely nine namedays, but his pouring was steady as he poured into a secondary goblet he had at the ready, apparently already used to the tantrums the King was prone to throw.

"Well, get on with it then. What do they whisper?" barked the King, downing his wine again.

Jaime tempered the urge to wrinkle his nose. Varys was another character that the King deemed worthy that the Lannister Knight disliked. Thought Jaime had little care for the intrigue and mess that filled King's Landing and made a point of keeping out of the struggles of power, even he disliked the amount of information the eunuch had. It was a dangerous thing to be, well informed. And the man was always well informed.

Besides, his various perfumes always made Jaime's nose itch.

"Oh, strange things. There has been a shift, in the House Stark," mused Varys, pleasantly, eyes sparkling in what was something akin to delight, "The education of their children has changed for the sake of the long Winter to come, all of the eldest, even the bastard boy are being prepared with intense lessons and duties. It is an odd day for my birds not to see the boys, the heir Robb, and bastard, and their eldest girl child, Sansa, trailing behind the Lord and Lady."

"So he's educating his children," stated Stannis, a frown on his face.

"Yes. But it is a sudden change," agreed, Baelish, voice carefully, "Cat, of course, would never neglect the education of her children, but the intensity is concerning. Especially such attention to a bastard of all things. I wonder how poor Cat could stand such dishonor unless of course, she knows of some plan for the bastard. Some would suspect-"

"Don't finish your words, Baelish," is the growl from the King.

The thin man gives a placating smile and dips his head.

"Of course, your grace."

"Ned explained it to me in very specific terms. His Maester made a mention that it had been yet another year of Summer, and Ned made inquiries of when to expect the Autumn and of course the coming Winter. His Maester Luwin specifically stated to find a rare pattern in a long summer past five years. A very short Autumn to follow, and an even longer Winter, possible double as long as the Summer. You can see where that would concern any man, we have had near a decade of Summer, and no sign of Autumn," stated the Hand, firmly, "When I said to give caution I meant for the Kingdom as a whole, not specifically for anything that would come from the North. Ned and Cat are pragmatic people and see a hardship for their children, natural born or not, to bare in the coming years. I believe their accelerated education is proof of that. Something I will take into account when it comes to my own child."

Renly took that moment to answer the Hand, dramatically leaning forward on the table, hands splayed in a way that caused his rings to catch the light of the torches.

"Something that the Tyrells have taken notice as well, due to their own Maester running similar calculations. My squire, Loras, has mentioned that his family is expected to have discourse with the House Stark over their agricultural agreement. It is said they will be looking to visit Winterfell themselves within the coming moon."

"I believe that Lord Hoster is seeing fit to do the same and is preparing to visit his family in the North," interjected Varys, a thoughtful look on his large, round face.

For the first time in a long time since he had been forced to attend these meetings behind the King, Jaime found that the lot of them seemed agitated and concerned in a way that had little to do with the King's want to bankrupt the whole Seven Kingdoms with his extravagant hunts, feasts, tourneys, wine, and whoring.

"More people gathering at Winterfell," said the King with a slight grin, "Makes me want to pay old Ned a visit myself."

"I do not think Ned would appreciate that, your Grace," started Aryn, smiling slightly, "I believe he already has his hands full with guests if Hoster and the Tyrells see fit to go and partake in salt and bread with the entire North already within his walls."

"Must be driving him spare, Ned was never good with a lot of people."

 _If he mentions Stark one more time in such a tone, I believe I will be ill._

"Indeed-"

Jaime went back to staring at the tapersey of some battle or other. Bored as the conversation fell to taxes and such things that would have to come in the wake of the shift of the economy. Maths always made his headache, and he suspects it was Tyrion who would have been pleased by all the talk. He was dismissed a few tic marks later, just before the King retired to his more regular activities in his chambers and glad of it. Weary of standing witness to the messes of yet another King, for another night.

 _At least the women do not scream in terror. How it grates on the ears._

"Hello Uncle," said a voice, soft and sweet.

Jaime shifted, hand touching at the hilt of his sword. He turns quickly, face shifting into sternness and anticipation. He is more than a little surprised to see Tommen, small as he was, dressed in nothing but a shift and a yellow quilt warp around his frail shoulders. As always, something close to discomfort came to him in the presences of his sister's children. He stood not even to his waist and was barefoot. He wondered, for a moment, how the boy of three namedays had managed to escape the confines of his nursery. The boy gave no hint of the oddness of him being in the corridor.

"Hello nephew," he said, awkwardly. But he tried to dispel it, an easy if forced smile coming to his mouth, "What has you awake so late?"

Green eyes, the same shade as his, the same shade's as his mother's, looked at him carefully. In the torchlight, they looked all the darker, almost black. His delicate, golden brows furrowed, and he shifted slightly, making the thick curls that adorned his head bounce. It was a comical, sweet sight, and he wondered faintly as he looked at what he assumed was his mirror at that age if he too had ever looked like that.

"I… One of my kittens has gone missing," the words were careful, clear, and Jaime noticed that the boy had yet to slur.

 _I am so unobservant that I did not notice that the boy could speak clearly?_

"Kittens?"

"Y-yes. I was gifted a kitten for my nameday from Uncle Tyrion. But it has gone missing. I thought I saw it pass through here."

It is the most Jaime had ever heard Tommen say. _Does he like animals?_ The most he would associate with the boy was the fact that he stuck so closely to little Myrcella, to the point that he could hardly tell the two apart, had it not been for Cersei's instance at dressing the little princess in such elaborate gowns.

"Perhaps it would be best to wait until the day to search for the kitten. You can even coerce many more servants, them being awake an all."

The little boy looks up at him, before he nods, slowly.

"Perhaps. Will you take me to my rooms, Uncle?"

Jaime hesitates before he reluctantly gives the little princeling a nod. The boy takes the opportunity to reach for him. It is almost comical, how high his hand can reach up, which isn't very high at all. Jaime debates it before he reaches down to bring the prince up in his arms. It is an awkward weight, and it obvious to Jaime how ill-prepared to have a child in his arms. It takes a moment before the boy falls into a comfortable place on Jaime's hip. The boy's arms come around Jaime's neck and it took all of Jaime's willpower not to react to the gesture of affection. Carefully, Jaime made his way to the vague direction he knew the boy's rooms to be, in the Maegor's Holdfast.

Some part of Jaime noted that it was close as physically closest to the Queen's room, other than the first Prince's bedroom.

He moves to set the boy down, within his small bed, but the boy stops him by squeezing Jaime's neck. Carefully, the boy pressed his face into his hair.

"I wanted to see you," the boy said softly, "Uncle, I am happy to see you."

Jaime blinked, surprised, setting the boy down as his grip slips from around his neck. The boy was frowning before he squared his shoulders.

"I needed to see you, Uncle."

Jaime is first surprised by the gaze the boy gives him, so firm as it is. And then he is surprised by the fact that Tommen wished to see him, out of everyone. He would think his mother, even Myrcella would be his source of comfort above him.

"Ah. Of course, you can see me whenever you wish it-"

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course-"

"Even if Mother says no?"

Jaime blinked, rapidly at the way he looked at him, still so firm, searching. Something in him, something he tried to bury on his better days, soften.

"Of course, Tommen."

The boy just keeps looking, hardly blinking, the dark green eyes unwavering. Then he smiles, a large smile that highlighted how the boy of three namedays was missing teeth.

"Thank you, Uncle."

* * *

 **AN:** **I do not own A Song of Ice & Fire, or A Game of Thrones in any sense. It's universe, characters all belong to its wonderful creator, its publishing and broadcasting companies.**

 **This is me, playing in its sandbox, making misshapen sandcastles.**

 **Thank you, really, to all the kind people who have reviewed. I know I have mentioned that there has been less than kind reviews in the past, but something about the previous chapter has had a really positive response that actually took me aback. Like to the point that I was thinking you guys had a meeting or something. Thank you, again. I know I also stated in the past that the negative reviews have not really affected me in terms of wanting to keep writing the story, and I maintain that, but I will say positivity is never not wanted in terms of encouragement for any writer.**

 **I know the amount of canon mixing of both the Show and the Books has been a point of tension amongst most readers, but really I just want to take this moment to also say the fact that this fic is, specifically an Alternate Universe. Meaning which, I am taking elements of both canons and mixing them at my leisure to take this particular story in the direction I have planned for it. I've also never been shy of saying that I am not an expert in the Canon of the books, or even the TV show. Anything elements beyond season six are considered non-canon within this story, just for the sake of my sanity, as I started this before I saw season seven and even that is subject to fudging for book elements being introduced. So, in conclusion, everything in the books and season six backward is considered fair game for me to use within the fanfiction, but that does not mean that everything will be used. It is a mixture of both, and I have never been shy of saying that.**

 **~Happy Reading,**

 **Moon Witch '96**

 **P.S. On a side note, for anyone who cares, I've noticed that in my other fanfiction in A Song of Ice & Fire, the response has not been near as negative, in fact, I hardly get a negative review at all in that one, despite being essentially stated to be the same as The Sweetly Sung Queen; an AU, canon mixing fic, that fudges canon drastically. In my honest opinion, I believe the reason is because of my choice in main character, Sansa. I think I've already stated my opinion enough that the amount of hate that Sansa gets for being a traditionally feminine child raised to be exactly what is expected of a young girl in a High Medival Fantasy setting is all sorts of ridiculous.**


	11. Sapphire

**Sapphire**

" _A purer sapphire melts into the sea," Alfred Tennyson._

Sansa understands that there is a beauty to no longer be the one that was looked to in terms of authority.

The sense of anonymity offered to just be a girl, who is not Queen or even Lady of the North, in however lesser capacity she had been, is something that is a relief to Sansa. It is a strange feeling, to fall back into being perceived in a role she had long outgrown, that of the eldest girl child of a Lord Paramount. The amount of power, the number of expectations placed upon her was completely set back. In the eyes of strangers, all she was expected to do, marry for the sake of her House, to learn to run a household, and make children upon her flowering. As someone not yet flowered, with no breasts nor hips, she was not the object of lust nor true political intrigue, just a sweet small thing that was favored and praised for beauty and whatever grace she could muster. While that was not her true purpose, she was dismissed and disregarded because of what she looked like, the Lords of the North looked at her with vague interest, but with no real weight to their gazes. _Just like before._ No one beyond her family looked to her and saw power or someone who held sway over those that were in power. That was left to Robb, the male heir, and to some lesser extent Bran, who was the immediate heir after that, to confront.

It was strange. To be so overlooked. To no longer have to strive for a certain image of fortitude and poise, to reject the Southern tenants she had learned with her Mother to remove any image she had cultivated as a young child before her captivity. She had taken the mantle of a Queen gladly, upon reclaiming Winterfell, upon Jon being declared King, upon his decision to raise her alongside him. But it had been a _mantle_ nonetheless, made only more stressful when Daenerys had come to them, dragons and hoards at her back, the threat of the Others on all of their minds. Despite the fact that the last Houses of the North had never considered her for such a position.

Sansa had been _queen,_ ruled alongside Jon...

" _They call me King, but this is your home, Sansa. You are Father's last trueborn child. You are queen if they so wish for a child of House Stark to lead us," said Jon quietly, afterward the chorus for the King in the North had finished ringing after they had adjourned to the Solar their father used to occupy._

 _They share it and have been sharing it since they had reclaimed the remains of the Keep that used to be their home. Its but a skeleton of it, a hollow where once was full and theirs. Sansa looks to her brother, grown as the man that he is, tall, broad and steel-eyed commander. Were it not for the slight curl, the blackness of his hair, the softer jaw and higher cheekbones, she would think him their father. It blurs with each day she spends with him. As Jon becomes a fresher memory. Some days, she looks to the corner of her eyes and it is not him she sees, but rather their father. If it were not for her own control, she thinks she would have slipped and called him Father. Her lips are parting slightly, the only semblance of reaction that is so automatic, that she cannot stop it. It pulls slightly at the split at the corner of her mouth, still healing, but Sansa does not allow the sting, burning as it does, to be outwardly displayed. She breathes deep through her nose._

" _Jon… I do not think that is what matters. You are the one that they see fit to lead. I do not believe they wish for a captive girl to be what leads them. They only see weakness," she says this in a calm, pretty voice, hardly changing in inflection._

 _His reaction is discomfort, as always, at her lack of expression beyond the pretty placid mask she holds so well, shown in the way his brow furrows, how his he looks slightly away from her. His fists, scared, calloused and so large, clench._

" _They are fools."_

 _If she had been so inclined, that vehement declaration would have made her smile. As it was, made something warm in her chest. It was a completely foreign sensation, or at least, it feels as if she has never felt anything like it. She had almost forgotten such a feeling, the feeling of being praised, and esteemed, not for empty flattery, but honest true praise. She sees it in his eyes, grey, dark, so like Arya's, so like their father's._

" _They call you King."_

" _If they are so inclined, then they will call you queen. Queen in the North. That is what I will declare, that is my answer to their proposal of taking Robb's title. It is not mine, but yours."_

 _A queen is an inherent power. Or so the likes of Cersei Lannister and even Margaery Tyrell would have believed. Sansa sees it differently, she who would have held the title if she had been married to Joffrey, would have been queen. But it would have meant_ _ **nothing**_ _. It is a position that could hold power if you were so inclined to wield it and if you could get others to let you. Cersei had tried, vehemently, to take that mantle and hold power over the Seven Kingdoms as no woman had before her, and in many regards, had failed miserably. She had no true purpose of being a queen. To her, Cersei had been constant in the desire to control her own life, and consequently those of the people around her, for an ignorant belief that with power came absolution. Came peace and glory._

 _But… Sansa believes, perhaps, just perhaps, she could be someone who wielded the power of a queen well. She would use the power of a queen to better her subjects, to lead them in the coming Long Night. But she also believes that Jon is more than deserving of the opposite mantle of being King, more than deserving and able to wield it as a man, and as someone who had fought the paranatural horrors she had only caught glimpses of._

 _Two areas. Two minds… Two things to consider when it came to the control of the Kingdom of the North._

" _I have a better solution. Take Robb's crown. Be King in the North and I will be Queen in the North. The last of the House of Stark, ruling, together. No one has ever said the King and Queen would have to be spouses. What say you, Jon?"_

 _Grey eyes. Their father's eyes, look at her, and the surprised smile that response to her is vicious as Ghost, as fierce as the biting wind that howls across the hills and planes of what had been their brother's Kingdom._

But in the same moment, she cannot forget how heavily the crown had felt on her brow. She may have not been Dany, with her dragon children and unyielding determination to conquer all that which she thought was her right, nor Jon burden with the protection of all things of warm flesh and blood, but she had still had the mantle to care for all those within their domain. She had still been the one to delegate supplies, the egos of whoever was within their armies, the one to try and keep the people at peace in uncertain times. She had been the sweet queen- the Queen with humanity against the grander High King and Queen. The red wolf of the North come home to be the lady to them all.

She is no longer in the same position of symbolism.

And it eases her, the knowledge that she is the source of change amongst the Houses of the North, but they do not know it. Their gazes do not linger, do not focus on her. She sits upon the High Table, between Robb and Jon. She is not outwardly acknowledged by her father, as the Lords of the North, and whomever they deemed fit to attend such an important call from the liege Lord.

It is also a boon to not be the one that the looks of disbelief and defiance are directed to.

"And I suppose the fact that the only available glass blower in the North is within your employee is no matter of consequences, eh?" said Lord Bolton, frowning.

Sansa felt her quill still, for fraction of a moment, having used the pretext of being the one to record the events of the meetings as an excuse to her presence. Her father did not frown, simply stared at Bolton, eyes flashing with dislike. He knew his potential as a traitor, if not the full extent of his actions and had promised to keep only an even and wary eye on the skin flayer, if only as a prudent precaution. He had done a remarkable job on not acting on his more honorable impulses. _The long game is more important._

"For once I agree with Bolton," rumbled Great-Jon, hand coming to stroke his unkempt beard, "It's an expense we can do without, Ned. If we just keep trade up during winter, the glass gardens would be a pretty thing that waste space."

Without looking, Sansa nudged Robb beneath the table. Her brother took that as his cue and cleared his throat.

"The glass garden is to insure absolute protection for each Keep. What use is trade if the roads are too dangerous to travel in fierce winds and scattering blizzards? What use is a stalk pile that dwindles with each day? Starving people is your legacy when your supplies are reduced to nothing. We place the glass gardens in each Keep for the independence of each House in the circumstances that a long Winter can bring," said Robb, loud, clear and firm

Great Jon raised a brow, an indulgent look on his face.

"And what do you know of Winter? Summer _boy,_ you have never felt those winds, never seen the world consumed by night and cold."

Robb shifted uneasily in his seat, his jaw tightening. Sansa places a calming hand on his knee, squeezing slightly as Robb forcibly exhaled.

"Winter is Coming. Those are my words. That is what I know, summer boy that I am, and will ensure that Mine and yours adhere to them."

"He knows his words," said her Father, calm, "And it is those words that made us decide on the policy of the glass houses. If the glass blower is the concern, I am sure that Lord Manderly, I am sure, will be willing to aid anyone who wishes to hire their own outright. But the mandate stands. Every House in the North shall have a glasshouse sizable enough to supply itself in an emergency."

The large, portly Wyman Manderly, in green and golden, looks to her father, stands, his knees creaking, his large form trembling, as he bows, and then gives a careful nod. It causes his many chins to wobble, and there is a general air of suppressed laughter or amusement at the overly stately gesture. But Sansa sees the way his eyes gleam, dark, intelligence and shrewdness. She nearly smiles, understanding that the man is glad to be directed too by his liege Lord.

"Whatever Lord Stark commands, I am sure that I am able to help any House find such aid if they so wish it," his voice is boisterous, his critique of any that would so distrust them is even more so.

Sansa nearly smiles, when her mother, nods graciously at the larger lord, her eyes gleaming as well.

"Any profit from our personal glass blower, of course," says her mother, brisk, lips in a careful smile, "As stated with our proposition, will go to reparations of the roads and the upkeep of the major points of trade between the houses of the North. To use our glass blower is to help the North as a whole, not to line our own coffers."

Bolton jaw sets, and he opens his mouth to argue, had it not been for his son, Domeric, placing a hand on his shoulder. Great-Jon is still running his hands through his beard.

"Well, that's settled. Now, I want to talk about this initiative of-"

The general air of reluctance, squabbling and some argument continues, well into the afternoon from their early morning session, and Sansa's hands fly across parchment after parchment, as the Lords of the North make concessions, bicker, loop back on prior agreements and discussions. Thought the respect for her father is clear, the lack of urgency, despite their projections, is something she cannot unsee. The lack of hope in her memories had been the largest obstacle, and it seemed now, it was instead the lack of true understanding of the danger of what was coming for them. She had expected this to some extent, but it is no less frustrating to see in the faces of so many Lords she had never seen past her thirteenth name day, and especially in the few Lords she knew would have survived to see her and her brothers as their ultimate sovereign.

 _I see only summer fatten fools and unknowing men and woman set for the slaughter, be it in Southern Wars or at the hands of the Others. We are only yet announcing our means to protect the North from winter, not creatures made of ice and snow set to kill them all. What will happen then? How many will stay willfully ignorant?_

Her hand is inked stained and cramped, but she dutifully continues, until her father calls for a recess, and Sansa cleans and sharpens her quill as lords and ladies alike filter out to stretch their legs as food is brought into the Great Hall, the only space large enough to host their entire lords of all the houses in the North in mass to hold their meetings. Robb, next to her, quickly downs the only goblet of wine he had been allowed at the meeting, and Jon, on the other side, is pressing his palms, into his eyes. Little Bran has already run off, determined to not return, her mother has left to coordinate the servants, and their father is left at the tallest seat, frowning down at the parchment in front of him.

"How, in the name of the gods, old and the new, does anything ever get done," mummers Robb, reaching for Jon's goblet, "I have seen better peace made between Rickon and Arya. And they have yet to reach ten namedays between them."

Sansa intercepts him with a pointedly raised brow, hand over the lip of the goblet.

"By a great deal of compromise, Robb," she says, carefully, before she pushes the goblet to her other brother.

He had yet to drink anything or eat any of the small foodstuffs that had been along the tables for everyone to partake in. It had been, in her memories, a sign of stress in the High King, to not touch any food or drink in front of him, and she hopes to break it in his younger counterpart.

"And patience. Neither of which any of the Lords seem to be eager to have in terms of this," says Jon, with a scowl.

He ignores the goblet until she pinches his arm. He sighs before he takes a careful drink. It is not even strong wine, which is why she had allowed Robb to down his own as he had, but even than her more morose brother grimaces as he takes drink after drink. She pointedly pushes towards him a platter of cheeses and salted meats laid out.

"It must be all of us with patience. This is but the first day of true discussion, my children," states their father, gravely, turning to them.

His expression is calm, and his movements are even more so. His eyes betray his concerns, and so does the way his left hand is fisted against his knee.

"If we must," agrees Robb, running a hand through his dark auburn hair.

"I had just hoped for more agreements today," argues Jon, frowning.

"It is a simple lack of danger," Sansa says, jaw tightening, "They do not see the urgency of it all-"

"They will, Sansa," her father's voice is firm, without argument.

In spite of herself, Sansa feels something in her relax at the assurance. _Many would have called me a fool, to be assured. The likes such as Cersei and Petyr would have mocked my reaction. But I do not care. Not anymore._

She is saved from answering to him when Jory comes up to her father, a furrowed brow and a frown on his face.

"My Lord, there is a woman asking to enter Winterfell," started Jory, matter-of-factually, "She is appealing directly to you to enter."

Her father blinks, his own brows lifting in frank surprise.

"Why does this require my attention?"

Jory shifts, uneasily.

"The woman is in full plate armor, My Lord. We believed it wise to ask if we should allow her in."

Sansa starts so badly, that she accidentally knocks the goblet of her wine off the table, a loud crash that causes whoever is in the Hall to look at her. She stares at Jory, uncomprehending before she realizes what he has just said, truly understanding his words.

 _By the old gods and the new._

Her breath hitches and her father turns to her sharply in surprise.

"Sansa?" his voice is calm, but there is an urgency upon her reaction.

She is aware of the gaze of all upon her. Not vicious nor unrested, but rather curious as to why the Lord of Winterfell would be so bothered by the reaction of his eldest daughter, young as she is. She is aware of all of her family turned to her in alarm at her seemingly out of character and violent reaction. Sansa only stands, gracefully and quickly as she can in the pool of weak wine, gripping her fine gown with trembling fingers. She turns to her father for a second but finds her voice lost. He looks calm, but she can see the muscle working in his jaw, just beneath his beard. A tell of his worry upon her reaction.

 _Say something!_

"Excuse me father," is the best she can say. _If… If this is-_ She boldly picks up her skirts and starts running without another word.

Surprised shouts come, but she is already out the great doors to the hall, to the gates when anyone thinks to come after her. She stops at the sight of the person within the shadow of the gates of Winterfell, outside and upon a great horse of brown coat, two guards next to her, her armor covered chest heaving as if she was mid-argument. Sansa's hand comes to her mouth before she lowers them.

"What is the meaning of this?" she calls, her voice, so soft and high, is ridiculous when she tries to place authority in it, especially when she is so out of breath, but she cares not, because her calls accomplish what she wanted.

Sapphire eyes, bright bold and so much more lovely a shade than her's, look at her.

Sansa wishes to weep at the sight of Brienne of Tarth, her mind spinning and in confusion, alarm, worry, and sheer _joy_. A turbulent storm within her at the unexpected appearance of one of her sworn shields. She knew Jaime Lannister, being who he was, would more than likely never be that to her again. But Brienne. Brienne, Brienne could be _her's_ again, if she were to come up with a clever way to bring the strong woman to her side. She had yet to call for her, to think of a perfect excuse to bring this woman to her. Her sworn protector, her confidant in odd moments. One of the few people that the harder Arya could smile at that was not her and Jon…

Sansa stares, her chest heaving as she makes her way forward, head high, heart trembling.

"Let this woman through," she demands.

The guards, reluctantly, allow the woman, horse and all, to pass. She makes a striking, and odd figure, dressed in gleaming full mail and plate, pale, straggly blonde hair, longer than her memories, half-heartedly pulled away from her face with a leather tie. Brienne dismounts, heavily, eyes never leaving Sansa's face, just as Sansa cannot keep her gaze away from Brienne's.

"My qu-," her voice is warm, thick and achy with feeling even as she stumbles over her words, staggers a step forward, hands reaching automatically, something in Sansa howl's in sheer shock and possibly relief, "Sweet lady, pardon I have come a long way-"

Sansa is a cold creature of calculation… But she was still a young woman that would relish and hold warmth and love close to her romantic heart. The implications of that stumble-

"Brienne," her voice is thick with emotion, her eyes swell with tears she always tries to suppress, "Brienne is that you?"

 _Please let it be true._

The older woman freezes, eyes, her beautiful eyes, so large and deep, widen. She is younger right now, her face not as scarred, only but a young woman of five and ten. Not quite as tall, her large nose not yet broken, as it had in the future. She is still gangly and well-muscled, but slighter than the woman in her memories. Sansa feels as if her heart will leap out of her chest. Brienne, as always, sees to never censor herself as Sansa did, and allowed large, full tears fall down her freckled face.

"I thought- I could only hope when I saw the announcement of movements in the North. That I was not mad, that someone- Someone else- I had to come," tears fall from dark, sapphire eyes, "I had to come and fulfill my vow."

She is running, as is Brienne and they meet halfway, gleaming steel against fine wool and velvet, hugging so tight that Sansa cannot breathe.

She doesn't care.

They fall, together, to their knees, in sobs and warmth.

"My queen," it is a whisper in her ear, revenant and heartfelt.

 _I am not mad. Even if I knew it to be true, part of me had doubted._

"Brienne."

She cannot say more for she feels as if she is about to burst. It takes them a moment before they come apart. They yet hold hands, tightly grasped. Grieves against ink splattered fingers.

"I am not mad," whispers, Brienne, and she smiles.

Her smile is crooked, her teeth twisted in places, but it's her eyes that show how beautiful she is, so large and warm.

"No," whispers Sansa, a beam on her own face, "You are not."

"Sansa- Whoa!" and that is Jon, breath in a gasp.

He is standing stunned. Brienne stands, abruptly, bring Sansa with her. Her hands tremble within Sansa's before she makes a staggered step towards Jon.

"My King," whispers Brienne, softly, so much so only Sansa, so close to her, hears.

She kneels before Jon, right there in the courtyard. Any good feelings coursing through Sansa immediately dispense, especially at her own foolish actions to show such emotions to what should be a stranger. She grows pale, hands coming to tug desperately at her sworn shield's hand, still in her.

"Brienne no, not here," she hisses, desperately, eyes flickering about.

Birds, she tries desperately to misinform birds with false songs, either those that belong to the Spider or the Mockingbird, but she is no god, no real spymaster much as she wishes she was. While she knows her secret to at least be safe, and of the new intentions of the North, she doubts _this_ gesture from the Maid of Tarth will be hard to read for any spy. Such respect to a bastard boy of the Lord of Winterfell? From a stranger from so far?

"My-"

"My dear friend," she says easily, politely through her teeth, whipping quickly at her tear-filled eyes, "I am sorry to inform you that this is not my eldest brother, Robb. This is my second brother, Jon."

Brienne is not a woman of great slyness. But she is not a great fool. She rises, face flushed, horribly ruddy.

"My apologies, my… Friend. I thought it-"

"Do not fret," says Sansa, easily, squeezing her hand, without knowing how much of the gesture could be felt through her armor, "Quickly, you have traveled long and far to be here. Jon, sweetling? Would you gather, Mother, father and Robb in the solar before the afternoon meal? I wish to introduce them to my friend from the South."

She tells him of the importance, with just her eyes, and Jon gives her a quick, firm nod. His eyes go to Brienne, curiously, before he makes his way back to the hall, without another word.

"Come, Brienne," she says, "The guards will take your horse to the stables."

Questions in her eyes, but much used to her directions, Brienne follows Sansa without protest, hands at her sword, falling into step behind Sansa as she always had. Sansa, reluctant to allow such a gesture to be seen, falls back a step herself, winding her arm around Brienne's. They walk in hurried silence, to the Solar that the elder Starks had claimed as their own, beyond the Lord and Lady that ruled the keep. They are the first to arrive, and Brienne takes that moment to turn to her with wide, eyes.

"King Jon does not-"

"No. It is just me, Brienne. I awoke a few moons ago as I am, in this body ten years too young. Just after… Just after Arya and I lit the wildfire in the camp. I knew I could not allow the world to stay the course that lead to my death, so I have done my best to save the North in these passing moons."

Brienne eyes close, her expression is anguished.

"When I failed you, you mean. I should have stayed within the camp-"

"My protection was better served with you fighting the Others. We discussed this," she retorts, eyes narrowing at the look of pain on her protector's face.

"It mattered not in the end. I would have better felt to die with you, my Queen, than in ice and blood. I died in a battlefield too far away from you and your sister. I failed my vow."

Emotion is something Sansa relished and prided herself in suppressing. Tears were in her eyes, that she desperately blinked back.

"You were with him, in the end, serving your vow to protect me. In the end, you owe nothing to me, nor my mother. Brienne, as happy as I am too see you, surely your death and mine has signaled that vow fulfilled?"

Brienne did not stop her tears, falling easily down her freckled cheek.

"Your Highness," says Brienne, blinking, "I will always protect you. Not just for my vow to Lady Stark, but for you. You are my Queen. I will be your guard, your sword and shield until I no longer draw breath. That is my vow. My eternal vow."

"A strong vow, my Lady."

Both she and Brienne turn, to see Sansa's father, standing to at the opened door of the solar. Brienne blinks before she harshly swipes at her eyes with her steel covered hands.

"You look too much of the High King," says Brienne, quietly as her father, closed the door, "To be anyone but Eddard Stark."

Her father frowns.

"I am Eddard Stark. But the way you know me as is concerning."

"I beg your pardon, my Lord-"

"You bring troubling things, my Lady. One more person knows of the future that haunts my daughter. Who is to say who else brings the memories?"

Sansa, knowing the wisdom in her words, clench her fists, heart hammering.

"Father-"

She is stopped from answering as the door opens again. Robb, Jon and her mother file in, closing the door behind them again. They look at Brienne curiously, even as the older woman flushes furiously, and ducks her head slightly, deferring to Sansa to announce her as she saw fit. Sansa sighs, before she straightened her shoulders, turning to them once they were settled within the room.

"Jon, Father, Mother, and Robb. May I present to you Brienne of Tarth, my sworn shield. She… She is like me. She remembers the same future as I do."

The silence is heavy. But is broken quickly.

"Brienne of Tarth, welcome to Winterfell," her mother smiles, warmly, even if her blue eyes are entirely alarmed, "Sansa has told us much of you."

Brienne's eyes widen. Immediately, she goes to kneel once again, falling hard to her knee in a movement that shakes the cobblestones, as the large woman is in a full suit of armor. She presses her eyes tightly together, not looking up at Catelyn Stark, her lower lip trembling in emotion.

"My lady," her voice is trembling, emotive and speaks of how sensitive a soul that Brienne is at the sight of her mother, whole… Human.

" _My Queen, I beg you, no!" Brienne is crying. She is a warrior… But she is also a creature of great feeling and emotion, strangely naive. Sansa envies her for that._

 _Sansa lifts her torch, watching the bloated, rotting thing. For the first time in a long time, tears fall from her eyes. She cannot look away from… It._

" _Sansa, I'll do it, please, look away-" says Jon, voice thick and shaking._

" _I saw father's head on a spike, Jon. I was forced not to look away than. This is my choice now."_

 _The thing that calls herself Lady Stoneheart simply watches, grey eyes, flat, listless, caring not either way. The blue eyes, the blue eyes that nearly all her and her siblings shared are gone. Stripped of color. Turned so flat, lifeless, nothing is in those eyes,_ _ **nothing.**_ _It is worse than Wrights. That eerie, unnatural blue at least shows the life of the Others. This, this thing shows no life. The pull of its mottled flesh is the only thing that shows emotion, its mouth, bloated and distorted by moons of unsteady rot, are pulled into a mockery of rage._

" _She means for revenge, My lady," says a man, a man that had come with the… The remains of her mother, "She is your mother."_

 _Sansa wished it to be true. But this. This._

" _This is not my mother."_

 _She thrusts the torch into the body's long, dried hair. It goes up surprisingly quickly in a flurry of flame._

"Brienne, rise," commands Sansa, after a moment, gently, placing her hand on her shoulder.

"My queen," mummers Brienne.

Sansa sighs.

"I am no longer queen of anything, Brienne."

Brienne frowns.

"You will always be queen, to me, your grace."

They stare at each other, for a moment, Brienne, tears still on her long lashes, frowning, while Sansa returns the gaze with a bland expression.

"Well. This clears something up for my own peace of mind. Sansa isn't mad," says Robb, after a beat.

Sansa blinks.

"You followed my words and still thought me mad?"

Robb grinned.

"No. You have changed too much and know too much to be anything than what you claimed. But it has broken whatever strangeness and unease comes from the knowledge that Sansa is not the only being with knowledge of future events-"

Robb paused and then frowned at the unease that crossed everyone's expression.

"Well, Stark, you truly have botched that up," said Jon, clapping him on the shoulder with a roll of his eyes.

"Come what may come," says her father, with a stern face, "The North will be better armed, nonetheless."

"But with all this change… Will this not signal to everyone who remembers that the North holds someone changed, as it did for me?" questions, Brienne, an alarmed look on her face.

Sansa feels her heart seize at the… The thought of certain beings knowing the future that could come as she did. _Ramsey, Petyr, by the gods old and new, Ceresi…_

"Surely we would have seen the effects ourselves?" said her mother, clenching her jaw, tightly.

"If we acted first than perhaps it would cause any other party reluctant to show their hand," argued Jon, frowning, "That is if they are people that are opposed to the interest of the North as its own kingdom. Or if they are in a direct position of power to act."

"Then have we showed our hand too soon ourselves?" said Robb.

Sansa breathed, deeply.

"We acted with what was the most prudent. With Brienne, this changes nothing beyond further precautions when dealing with the South. We have shown that someone within the North remembers, and that cannot be changed. Come what may come," Sansa says, quietly, "The North _will_ be ready."


	12. Friendship

_Friendship_

 _One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood," Lucius Annaeus Seneca._

" _I don't think I ever told you, Brienne," his voice was soft, almost tender, and she hated him for it, hated the fact that he was calling her by name, instead of wench, because it was as if he was admitting defeat, "I claim Sansa as my salvation, but you..."_

 _She presses tightly against the red that runs through her gauntlets, pressed tightly against his side, and she knows it cannot be in vain, can not-_

" _Be silent," she hisses, and she is surprised at herself but desperate. Her patience is thin, her heart is beating so hard it will leap from her chest, and her throat is hoarse with what she suspects are tears and horror._

 _He chuckles, it is a wet sound, and his teeth, perfect and straight are coated with his own blood. Golden hair is matted with it._

" _I always thought I would die with_ _ **her**_ _. I am glad it is with you."_

" _Stop it- I swear- You will not die, we have to return to her grace's side, we must-"_

" _Brienne..."_

 _Green eyes, green eyes she should hate are soft, so soft like the start of the spring she suspects she will never come, not with the dragons and their riders felled, not with the wildfire that is running rampant, so hot she feels it through her carefully constructed armor for the cold, feels sweat running down her back, even if the camp is so far away._

" _The Queen swore to lit the fire herself. She's gone. She… She would not place the burden on anyone else. Amazingly brave… Brave. It was an honor to serve a Queen that was so brave."_

" _Don't you dare Kingslayer," she snaps, "Our oath is still to her, and to Princess Arya. We will find them. You just have to stop you needless bleeding!"_

 _He just chuckles again._

" _Will you keep fighting?" his voice is calm, his green eyes are more so, "By my side?"_

 _Part of Brienne wonders that it is in death that Jaime Lannister finds peace. Not by his sister's side, not in battle, not with the salvation of his honor, but in death._

" _We have a vow to fulfill. I will make you see it through, Jaime."_

 _Green eyes are growing dim. Dimmer and dimmer and she thinks she hates him, as she had before._

" _Good. Good…" his voice grows softer, dimmer as his eyes, and Brienne is still pressing her gauntlets into his side, even when she suspects the blood itself is no longer flowing, "Good good..."_

 _Good is the last word Jaime says._

 _Brienne, for a moment, cannot believe it. She had seen the man, pus-filled stump, stand up to a_ _ **bear**_ _, for her. She has seen him let go of the woman he had loved all his life, let her go, for himself, for the vow he made to a woman he had no reason to keep beyond his own conscious. She had seen him serve by her side, bow once again to a sovereign as their personal guard, despite the horrors he had seen at the hands of the three Kings before. She does not think a slash should be enough to do him in. But he does not move, eyes, half open and heavily lidded, grows so still, and his smile, his smile is still there, blood coated teeth and all._

 _Until his hand twitches._

 _Those eyes, spring green like the grass of the hills that lead to the sapphire waters of Tarth, bloom into an unearthly blue. Glowing, almost beautiful had it not been so monstrous. The blood coated smile, still there, grows wider, and the body of Jaime Lannister staggers to its feet. And kneeling, Brienne sobs, even as she scrambles for her sword._

Brienne is sobbing when she wakes.

It is dark, she is not sure of the hour but knows it to be not long after she had fallen asleep. The air is not quite cool in her mind, against her heated skin, but it still raises goose-flesh across her arms as she feels it, her body, as it is, now unused to the cold that the North can bring. _Not as cold as the Night, not as cold as it could be, but still it is not used to it._ Her shift is soaked with cool sweat. A hand, small, so small and fine-boned that it feels as if it will break at the slightest touch, run through the strands of the dry hair she has yet to cut. The gentle tug is as delicate as a butterfly batting its wings, so slight, Brienne hardly registers it as she tries to settle her uneven breathing and the restless tears that fall from her eyes.

"Shhh. It's alright," comes a soft voice, warm, but high pitched. It is almost familiar, yet not, but it is enough to help further still her frightened breaths.

Brienne shifts, uneasily, in just a shift, eyes swollen and aching, and her face hot with her shame.

"I beg your pardon, your grace," she whispers, turning to look at her queen, small as she is, "Did… Did I wake you?"

Queen Sansa as a child was small, much smaller then Brienne would have expected at this age, as the queen had been tall enough to reach her chin, she who was so tall in comparison to most men. So small that Brienne suspects she, in her body of five and ten, would be able to shield her completely within her arms and lift her with more ease than before. But the queen, despite her diminutive size, is still cradling _her_ , instead. Her legs and arms, thin and warm, are around her larger bulk like a vice, beneath layers of soft furs and velvet. One hand is running through her hair, fingertips delicately threading through the rough blonde strands, while the other is carefully curled around her shoulders.

"No," she says, her voice, soft, is audible and calm, sweet as bird song, "I was already awake when your shoulders began to shake."

A still, calm expression is all that Queen Sansa gives, and Brienne wonders how that has not changed in their strange rebirth in the past. She doubts her words are true, for as early as she recalls that the young queen would rise and attend her duties, she was not accustomed to this early an hour, the sun not risen, and Brienne wonders at the simplicity of being able to tell the hour by the sun again. She has unsettled her main charge, she knows, the day before, despite their happy reunion… _I do not regret coming to fulfill my vow. But I wonder how much unrest I have brought upon the Queen's mind with my presence? How do her worries increase with the knowledge of more of us from the future?_ She feels twice the fool and swallows dryly.

"I apologize. Its… My memories come to me and I-"

"Brienne, you are not the only one who dreams."

Brienne swallows again, thickly, before she nods her understanding, but unable to shake the shame of being so weak in front of the one she is supposed to be protecting. The night before, she would have stood watch, _wanted_ to stand watch for her queen, knowing that she was before her, but had been instead been ordered to _'Rest after so long a journey. We will establish your place as my sworn shield soon enough, but first, you must be my secret friend due to happenstance and a confused raven.'_ Brienne understands her Queen's need to protect the North and understands that her coming to the North would have been more carefully planned out had Queen Sansa knew of her own return to the past, but cannot feel uncomfortable having to play a part.

She was no great mummer, nor comfortable with the need for deception. But she would do what needed to be done to stay by her charges' sides.

"Still, your majesty," she says, licking dry, cracked lips, "I do apologize. You were not expected to have such a bed-fellow."

She smiles. It completely changes her fair face- softness the sternness of her cherubic mask of politeness. Her eyes, a dozen shades lighter than her own, and much more beautiful shine with warmth.

"But I am glad to have you, here, Brienne. So _glad,_ " her voice wavers, thick with her joy and like the day before, Brienne is surprised to hear the joy that comes from her.

Not because she thinks her unfeeling, but because Sansa allows herself to act on affection that she rarely permitted herself to display in front of anyone when Brienne had known her.

"As am I to be here, my queen."

Fair, red brows furrow.

"You have to stop addressing me like that. It is a dangerous thing to be called with so many eyes upon us. The North is being watched, I am sure, with all of its movement, not to mention all of the Lords who look at us within our own borders."

Despite the obvious command, Brienne finds herself shaking her head.

"It is what you are."

"It is what I was," she mummers.

"You cannot change your baring, your grace, nor who you are to _me_."

The young woman wearing the mask of the child sighs.

"If you must, I ask only amongst the older members of my family. My parents, Robb and Jon are the only ones that know at present. No more public show of such deference, if you please, Brienne."

Brienne nods. She slipped yesterday- overcome as she was- she would not do so again.

"As you command."

The young queen smiles, slight, before she rises, with ill grace, rolling out from under furs and velvet in a slight tumble. It is a movement ill-suited to what Brienne thought was her true mental state of being a Lady of twenty namedays, but it all startling fitting of the youthful body of a girl. She seemed to relish the movement. She too, was is in just her shift, her hair, red as flame, a wild tangle growing steadily past her frail shoulders, nearing her slight hips. She steps on cold stones without a flinch. And for a moment Brienne appreciates the fact that she is seeing her so relaxed, so at ease in a way that she would have thought impossible.

"And I ask you to address me as Sansa. We are friends, if nothing else, Brienne."

Warmth blooms in Brienne's chest. Her queen is still smiling, true and Brienne is so glad.

"Of course, Sansa," her voice is shy, but she cannot deny the happiness that comes with the request.

Sansa nods.

"There are soft cloths and a basin of water, as I am afraid it would be unfair to request water for two baths at this hour," she directs, to a small counter, not directly commenting on Brienne's sweat-soaked appearance, "And we will settle you with proper attire once your position is settled. I am sure you found a few things appropriate for the Summer weather so far North, but I also trust you have something comfortable to wear otherwise?"

"I managed to arrange for some clothing to be made before I left for Winterfell. My father was kind enough to allow for such when I stated my intent to leave to the North. A few changes of clothes, but not enough to consist of a full wardrobe."

"How did you explain it to your father?"

Brienne sighed.

"I was not sure how to properly explain it. I only could say that I was compelled to try my hand of being a sworn shield, and thought the North to be a good place to try, kinder as they are with woman warriors. It was all I could say."

"You did well not to speak of the future."

Brienne swallowed.

"I was bound to keep your secrets, and I believe that it was part of it."

"Thank you," she said quietly, "You had no guarantee of what you would find here, Brienne."

"You are welcome. I had hoped to find someone else with the memories, with some many changes wrought… It is well and good that my hope was realized, and that it is you I found."

Without another word, Sansa lifts her own shift over her head, unashamed and used to being bare before her, a wordless gesture of trust as she sets her sleeping shift within a basket of unwashed clothes. She goes to do the same to her small clothes, as Brienne rises, hesitating, before she too lifts her own shift above her head, depositing it in the same basket, before making her way to the pitcher and soft cloths, soaking one carefully before cleaning herself best she could. Practically spoke to remove her small clothes, and she did so, as Sansa had wordlessly turned her back, a silent show of privacy. _She remembers my shyness._ Sansa was already dressed by the time she turned back around in a clean set of small clothes, much to Brienne surprise, in fitted trousers and a loose tunic. She was running a comb through her hair quickly untangling it.

"Dress as if you go to train," she commands, a slight smirk of humor appearing on her face.

"Of course," she responds, brows furrowing in her curiosity.

When she was dressed, Brienne searched for a tie for her hair and blinked as Sansa gestured for her to sit in the stool in front of her vanity. Wordlessly, she followed her command.

"May I braid back your hair?" she asked, softly.

Brienne blinked.

"I- Yes. Thank you. I have been meaning to cut it."

Sansa hummed.

"It is strange to see it so long," she replied, "A change."

"At this age, I was still trying to be something of a Lady, a pretense for my father. Once my last engagement fell through when I was six and ten, I sheared it off. My father said nothing to it, but I was so relieved to stop pretending."

Words seem to fall from her lips without censor. She does not know if it is because she knows that Sansa would not cast judgment on the course of her unconventional life, or if she feels that Winterfell is a safe place that takes her choices and understands them. Sansa hums, running carefully through her dry hair with a brush instead of a comb, precise, easy movements. Whenever she reached a knot, she was gentle, placing a warm, small hand against her scalp to ease the pull required to undo it.

"I will find the appropriate sheers if you so wish."

"Thank you."

Sansa made quick work of the longer strands, pulling it back in a sharp braid, that circled Brienne's head held in place by small steel pins, tight and taciturn that left not a strand in her face. The only real adornment was a single ribbon, holding a few of the shorter strands away from her face, a single thin band embroidered with running direwolves. The effect was very different for Brienne, so used to the more flowery effects of arranging hair of the South that had been so ill-fitting in her attempts as a youth, but this suited her far more. Sansa than did the same to her own hair in quick strokes as Brienne left the seat before the vanity and to retrieve her boots. Sansa did the same once she was done with her hair, before, she went to gather what, Brienne was surprised to see, two twin daggers that fit in a belt that was hidden beneath her tunic.

"You arm yourself with more than one dagger?"

"More than that, but you will see that soon, come, my lesson awaits," and in that moment, Brienne saw something she had never seen in her elder charge, a mischievous look to her eyes that was far too light-hearted to the person she had been.

Despite her unease, Brienne finds she is glad of the ease that her queen shows.

She follows her, hand on her sword she wears on her hip, the entire way, falling into step next to her, one arm laced through her's, instead of behind as she wishes too, but even in the shadows of the morning hours, Sansa is insistent. They go to a large, cavernous room, where a man is waiting for them, a small man with tan skin, large nose, and an earing swinging from one ear. He raises a brow at Brienne, before looking to Sansa. Brienne's grip on her sword hilt tightens.

"What more do you bring for me?" asked the man, and Brienne is struck with an accent that she thinks is Braavosi, having heard it a lot from some of the men the High Queen had brought with her from Essos, "Eh?"

"A friend, Master Syrio. Brienne of Tarth, she is a friend that knows swordsmanship, she is from the South, in the Stormlands."

"Oh? And does she know how to wield the blade she holds at her side?"

"She is one of the finest swords in the Seven Kingdoms."

Brienne feels her cheek heat, blinking rapidly at the calm assertion.

"S-Sansa boasts for my sake," she replies.

Sansa smiles.

"She is much too modest. But she has traveled far and does not wish to be apart from me. I will take my water-dancing lesson, and Brienne will do her own training if that will be agreeable with you?"

The man, just nods.

"Well, girl leave your swordswoman alone and learn," he says, calmly.

Brienne is astounded even further when Sansa proceeds to follow the strange man's instructions without protest, without a word. She stands, she stretches, before Brienne can recognize the fact that her eldest charge is learning to defend herself, learning stances and positions that fit well with the thin wooden blade that the man gives her before he begins to circle her with his own practice sword. It is further than a precautionary dagger, or even two. The man, Syrio, barks, orders, and critiques stances, her stamina, and other such things without hesitation, without guile. She takes the hit of the wooden sword from the man without flinching, her eyes only tightening as he hits her soundly on the legs, the hips to tell her where she needs to fix her stance. Sansa takes the lesson, listens, nods, and ask questions, careful, probing, and acknowledging her lack of skill.

Brienne absorbs this for a moment, hand tight on her hilt before she takes an evening breath. _She is taking the means to protect herself, to better herself. If I recall, her greatest grief was the fact that she was unable to protect herself when the people in charge of that failed to do so. It will never be her strength, I can see that, much as she is trying. But she need not be a true warrior, if ever she may falter, I will be there to defend her. That is my vow, is it not?_

Brienne licks her lips, heart settling in ease and understanding at the course Sansa is taking before she moves to start her own training.

She works herself well and hard, compensating for her loss of both height and muscle, sure in her ability to re-train her body to the same level of prowess that would defend her charges well. She is unaware of the time that passes, but she does move, quickly, with the sound of the door opening, side-stepping quickly to stand in front of Sansa. Her chest is heaving, her brow is full of sweat, but Brienne is prepared for whatever may come.

Grey eyes, large, innocent, startles Brienne, as she quickly lowers her sword.

 _Princess Arya._

"Good morning," the girl chirps, her gait is smooth, but still touched with the restlessness of a child, and she is smiling, curious as she looks at Brienne.

"Good morning, Arya," says Sansa, voice, warm as it was when she spoke to Brienne, even warmer, calmer, and she seems to be more out of breath than Brienne is, "It seems my lesson is over. Thank you, Master Syrio."

"Keep an eye on your hips girl, and try and lose your hesitation, you will never be quick to attack, but you must attack some of the time."

"Yes, of course."

"And you, big girl, Brienne?" starts the man, starling Brienne as he had yet to really address her, "You do well to stand before a friend."

Brienne swallows thickly and nods.

"I will always do so."

The man gives her a calm, assessing look before he gives a smile. His teeth are blindingly white against his tan skin.

"Good. Good. I will also say that you must not always rely on your strength, stronger that you are then most women, you are still a woman. Learn to be quicker."

Brienne blinks, slightly affronted, but knows his advice is just that- advice. He is not commenting in malice or to jeer at her. He is simply offering advice.

"I will take that under consideration."

"I will also ask for a spar, yes?"

"It would be my honor."

"Who are you?" and that is Princess Arya, a child, and as Brienne turns to her, she realizes how different she is from the woman she knew in just a glance.

"I am Brienne of Tarth. I am Sansa's friend."

Dark brows furrow.

"You don't look like you'd be Sansa's friend."

Brienne blinks.

"Arya," scolds Sansa, voice, not quite sharp, but instead exasperated, something that is tempered by what sounds like true fondness in her voice.

"What? She has a sword-and- she looks like she cannot sew!"

Sansa gives a laugh, and Brienne, as surprised as she is, can only laugh as well. _So this is who you were, before I met you, Princess. I suppose I can see what else I must protect._

"I cannot sew very well, if at all," she agrees, calmly, smiling easily at the young child, who turns to her, but she resists the urge to cry at the look of completely… Ease and just… Goodness, she sees in the girl, "But Sansa finds me a friend beyond that."

"Arya, Brienne and I met because of a raven I sent to inquire over some silk that was said to be less costly from White Harbor was confused, and instead was sent all the way to Evenfall, in the Stormlands. It was a lucky twist of fate that it landed in Brienne's hands."

"I agree."

"She wrote to me, and I we have kept a steacorrespondencedes since. She is my very first Southern friend. She wishes to be a knight."

Princess Arya's eyes grew wide, and her mouth fell open with quiet surprise.

"A knight?!"

Sansa gives a small smile.

"Isn't it wonderful?"

The look that the girl gives her sister is akin to the look most people would give to the dragons that the High Queen had brought to Westeros.

"It is," the girl, grows timid, for a moment, as expected to be scolded, but when Sansa only keeps smiling, she practically vibrates in her place, "Do you think I could be a knight as well?"

Brienne is amused, and both conflicted at the innocent question.

"Convince mother," is all Sansa says, and a small giggle escapes.

Grey eyes grow determine, grow steely, and she sees a glimpse of the creature the princess would have been- the same grit, the same sheer will to _survive._

"I will."

Sansa nods, comfortably.

"I wish you luck," she said calmly, "Brienne, do you wish to train more, or do you wish to follow me to break our fast?"

Brienne understands the hidden question. _Stay with Princess Arya, or stay with her?_

"You can both stay!" blurts Arya, excitedly, "We can train together."

Sansa blinks rapidly before her mouth falls into a brilliant smile.

"I cannot stay for your entire lesson, Arya, but I think I can manage a little longer. Let me just inform father that I will be slightly tardy to our morning meeting… Mayhaps I can drag Jon to join us."

Arya nods, her hair, long and not quite curls, bounce in the movement. Sansa makes to leave, and a decision made, Brienne nods to the once( _future?_ ) Princess, and her teacher, before she follows after Sansa. They walk in silence, in that silence Brienne can hear that the Keep has come to life, the fall easily into step with each other, and once again, Sansa places her arm in Brienne's in an easy show of friendship.

"Training, my lady?"

"Master Syrio convinced me. I thought it prudent."

Brienne feels her earlier thought confirmed, in the way that Sansa squeezes her arm in slight affirmation.

"I am glad."

"I will never be a warrior. But I do not need to be."

"No," she mummers, "Not with me here."

Sansa squeezes her arm again.

"No. Not with you here, Brienne."


	13. Innocence

_Innocence:_

" _Once a child is confronted with the concept of death there's a certain innocence that goes," Patsy Kensit._

Robb Stark thinks, sometimes, that he will wake to find the girl that had been his sister, looking back at him once again, each morning he enters his father's solar.

He dreams of it sometimes. He dreams of her smiles, soft and eager, so easily given. He thinks of the way she had walked, how she had bounced just so, so slightly, a movement that was on its way to becoming a graceful walk. He thinks of how she had been so easily frustrated by Arya, of how red she would turn when their younger sister would tease and pull. How she would cry with frustration when he refused to play a knight to her princess or fair maiden, and how she tried so desperately to imitate the grace their mother had in her every movement, held back by the restless energy of someone so young.

But with each passing day, he finds that the dream of his sister reverting back to the child she had been, just a few moons ago, will never occur. She was forever lost in a twist of time, a twist of fate and will of the gods. Old or new, he is not sure, just and warranted, he knows not. The only thing he can understand is that Sansa is truly grown in mind, and he feels perhaps he has fallen short in response, as he claimed, to suddenly no longer be the eldest amongst the children of the House of Stark. He looks at her, sees a calmness, a determination that looks foreign on the features of the girl he had known. Gone is the restlessly pretty girl who would coerce him into games of the Southern chivalry and would stuff lemon cakes into her mouth with a glee that interrupted her try at being a perfect Lady.

The knowledge that had she not come back, that he would claim himself, King, (even at the urging of other lords), at just five and ten, then lose that Kingship within a year or two, Winterfell in ashes, his younger brothers scattered upon the wind, his elder sister captive, his younger sister lost, he and his mother and father dead-

It makes him wonder. So many things. About himself, about the future, they are trying to change...

 _Am I worthy to be Lord of Winterfell? Or should it ever come to it,_ _ **Prince**_ _beneath the Stark banner? Sansa claims Northern independence is paramount in the Second Long Night to come, if not inevitable with all the mess that comes with the Iron Throne, and while she has not outright said she plans for such an insurrection, in all but words has she claimed the North to be its own Kingdom. In her eyes, am I to be King in her grand plan if fate shall see fit to take our Father again?_

On the days that he feels the lowest, of the words that fell from his sister's lips fester within his mind the most, he thinks not. Too young, not enough respect from the Lords that honored his Father, he sees with sharps eyes how dismissive they are of him _now_ , how dismissive they are of _all of them_ , young as they are, and even more so because of their Mother, the words ' _Southern',_ following freely through lips that do not think they are being watched. He sees it in the way they look at him, see this boy of three and ten trying to speak as their future Liege Lord, and he sees that he is lesser in their eyes.

 _How can I ever expect to be anything if I was a boy slated to lose the Winterfell, loose his life? The boy they called King, Sansa said that they called him the Young Wolf, even as a King. How could I ever be as Father is to them, respected, loved and esteemed?_

He understands, keenly, that he will always be at a disadvantage to the men that would be his to command, for he has not earned their respect as his father had. Without urgency, it is a wonder, really that what would have been his future self had managed it all. He thinks without the righteous fury that had been provoked upon his father's death- _never, as long as he held breath he would see to it that his Father died old and grey in bed-_ to cause any sense of respect from the men that were so much older than him. Hopefully, if Sansa's presence could do anything in changing the future, it would be so Robb did not have to take that mantle any time soon. _Old and grey in his bed._

"What's wrong with you, Robb?" came Theon, coming to were Robb was leaning against the wall, within the training yard.

Automatically, without his mean, Robb felt his jaw clench. The boy he would call brother, despite the strange happenstance of their friendship, looked at him with just a raised brow, his bow in hand. Expression somewhat concerned, hidden beneath the arrogant look of confidence that Sansa had told him was all a facade. Part of Robb could not believe that Theon would take Winterfell from him, under any circumstance, nor be so cruel as to kill two innocent children, even as a ruse to spar the boys he had been raised with, but… He supposes circumstances were not as he had always seen them. Theon would always feel apart from them, and he does not think that is a bridge they can truly gap without true efforts on both their parts. He does not know what to do in regards to that. He had offered Theon friendship, best as he was able, had never treated him any different, if slightly less favorable then Jon.

He did not know what else he wanted from him.

The circumstances of what would happen to him- Sansa had been so vague of that, just had stated- just had stated that after the Boltons had taken Winterfell that Theon had been taken prisoner: _'And had not been the same when I found him there. Especially after what happened to poor Jayne just before my arrival. I do not think he could have been, the same, after that. I never saw him again, after he helped me escape.'_ But Robb had been intelligent enough to read between the lines, known that from the look in her eyes, from the way her hands had come to her lap, that Theon had not met a happy fate after his short term conquest of Winterfell. And Sansa had pitied him- and even perhaps forgiven him to some extent for destroying the home his Kingly counterpart had trusted him with.

It must have been grave indeed, for such a betrayal to be met with any sort of forgiveness.

And because of that, Robb had no idea what to do with the boy that could betray him.

"Nothing," he replied, and he tried his best to smile, "Just happy to have a moment of rest, I suppose."

Theon, he noted hardly responded to his statement, only tightened his eyes, his smug grin still in place.

"Your Lord Father has been working you to the bone, Stark, I have seen little of you."

Robb fights the urge to snap, to say something less than complimentary, along the lines of not wanting to be seen with the likes of him. He struggles with himself. _Theon is not to blame for things he has yet to do, just the same as I cannot continue to berate myself for what is a future that will never come to pass. But I cannot settle this hurt, this betrayal._ He is saved from responding by Jon, who walks over with an even look on his face.

"Finished your paces?" he asked, quietly.

Robb gives a terse nod. He had ruthlessly pushed himself through the paces before the light of dawn had even come and had been in a sweaty heap before the arms Master, Ser Rodrik Cassel had even entered the yard. Robb had made a sure to demand the man work him even harder before Theon and Jon had come in sometime after dawn. They had had no room to speak, no room to interact, as Ser Rodrick had been instructed by their Lord Father to increase their training to the extreme, another by-product of Sansa's change, no doubt.

"Father wishes to see us before the morning meal."

"Not much of a message to give, Snow, if your father demands your council every day." says Theon, voice a touch mullish, "And I thought a ride through the wolfswood would help ease whatever snit you've been in."

Robb sees it, at that moment, the look in Theon's eyes, of how upset he is by the growing distance between them. He blinks, for a moment, but turning, before sets his jaw.

"Theon," he calls, and when the boy he thinks of a brother turns to him, he sees hurt and negligence he has allowed to pass between them since he learned of the possibility of betrayal. _Feel my anger I may, but I won't allow for it to become so strained between us. Nor will I ever let him go back to his father,_ "Why don't we go for a ride tomorrow, just before breakfast instead? I need to get out of the Keep- there have been so many people. I feel as if I have said pardon me more times than I can count, or nodded my head in greeting to the point that it will fall off."

Theon grins, briefly, an expressive thing that looks genuine before it settles into something more arrogant.

"Aye. What say you Snow, want to ride with us?"

Jon's eyes, grey and even, flicker back and forth between them before he nods.

"Let me see if I can get Sansa and Arya to come, even Bran."

"Well, if you wished to be slowed down, I suppose," muttered Theon, rolling his eyes. But he does not look displeased at the notion.

"We can make an event of it. A picnic before the first meeting," says Robb, as cheerfully as he dared.

Theon rolled his eyes again, but he looked a touch more pleased nonetheless.

"Alright Stark, we have a promise. I see if I can find some horses for your sisters. They don't ride often, do they?"

"No. In fact, I cannot remember the last time any of them rode."

"I'll find some docile ones than. You take care of the food. And if you can manage, get some wine. With the mess the kitchen is in with all of our guests, it'd be easy to nick it," he grinned.

Robb felt his own grin come automatically.

"We'll see."

"Don't let me down, Stark."

 _Only if you don't do the same, Greyjoy._

He walked, nodding his goodbye, Jon next to him. They walk in silence for a beat, heading towards their rooms to change and head for the daily meeting of the household. The halls are quiet, as most wouldn't rise for another hour or so. Robb feels a tension fall from him at it. They reach the family wing without encountering a single soul, and Robb is glad for it. Pretext it may have been to go riding out with Theon, he was not lying to say the Keep had been over-crowded and felt too close quarters with people he hardly knew. He feels strangely lost, before he takes his place at the high-table, before every meeting, feels small amongst so many people that were evidently supposed to respect and defer to him.

"So you've decided," Jon's voice is quiet, even as they enter the wing of the family.

"What do you mean?"

"To forgive him. Even after all that you know him capable of."

Robb sighs.

"He's done nothing. Whatever was done in the place that _she_ comes from, it hasn't been done. Theon has done nothing."

"Neither have we," says Jon, voice even quieter.

Robb stops. Stops and looks at his brother. _Because no matter who your father is, no matter your mother, you are my brother._ And just like in Theon earlier, he sees something in his eyes. It is a mirror, he wagers, of what he feels. As if they are looking up a mountain, with nothing but their bare hands to climb it, the haunting words of someone they loved, of horrors to come, as their only motivation. The burdens of a future that had evidently killed them, or perhaps the burdens of the knowledge of being Kings, however, short a time.

"Jon?"

"We know the parts we would have played. And all the mistakes that we would have made."

Robb felt his jaw clench.

"We do."

Jon gives him a measured look, a funny smile on his face.

"I've made so many vows to myself since Sansa told me of this… I wonder if you have done the same?"

 _Old and grey in his bed._

"Yes. A few."

"I thought so."

Robb grins, and he has no doubt that his smile is as queer as his brother's.

"So what does that mean, eh?"

"That we make sure to keep them."

They look at each other, and Robb can see a little bit of what Sansa sees, whenever she talks of the man she called the High King. And in himself, Robb can feel something as well- A bit of the what he is sure is what his future counter-part had used to try and avenge his father.

 _Old and grey in his bed._


	14. Grace

_Grace_

" _Grace is the beauty of form under the influence of freedom," Friedrich Schiller._

Sansa had long come to the conclusion that she was a graceless rider.

It is more evident to her, however, as she stares at the soft brown mare that Theon had procured from the stables, that she at ten namedays, she was even _worse_ then she had been at twenty. She cannot recall, really, if she had ridden much at this age, or at all, really. She had not been found of horses, for their smell, and had no place to really travel before her family's journey to King's Landing. On occasion, from her vague memories, she recalled small trips with the family, which had become so infrequent after the birth of Rickon. _Who would have thought I would have missed such rides? Longed for those forced trips and moments with my family?_ She had been clumsy, if adequate equestrian, and had skirted by on whatever short rides she had been forced to attend. In her later years, horseback had been a harsh requirement of speed and stealth, and later the only mode of transportation left to her.

 _At least until we had to sacrifice our horses to feed ourselves. The gardens produce was just_ _ **not**_ _enough to sustain every person, let alone a population of horses._

She suppresses a frown, as she watches Arya- little Arya, so much younger then her, who like her has hardly ridden more than her at this point, jump onto her own small pony without aid nor block. It is clumsy, but she still more or less grasp the mechanics of how to mount within a few seconds of examining the stirrup, and true to her slightly wild nature, she is astride like a man, rather than correctly sitting with her legs aside. It looks a bit ridiculous, really, as she is in a riding habit that is fit for a young girl of her station, the long soft brown skirt that was now bunched across her waist, the only thing preventing it from being scandalous was the fact that she was wearing trousers underneath, instead of proper stockings. Arya has never been one to let something such as wardrobe, nor her lady's saddle, stop her. Sansa, at that, does not suppress the small smile of humor.

 _Some things do not change, I see, sister._

"Lady Sansa?" asks Brienne, and she is already kneeling in front of her, hands cupped together as a step for her. It had been normal, for Brienne or Ser Jaime to aid her in mounting whatever horse could be spared for her.

Sansa shakes her head, a slight furrow in her brow before she forces her face to relax.

"Let me attempt to mount myself," she commands, gently, and Brienne gives her a swift nod, the newly shorn head glistening in the soft morning sun.

It is soft yellow and looks as soft as newborn chick fluff, and on Brienne's broad face, _familiar_ to Sansa. Despite her youthful face, it looks more akin to what they were. Part of Sansa is envious. _What would it be to have the body I left in flame and ash. Sometimes I look at my reflection and see nothing of who I became. Just a soft child that made so many mistakes, playing at being a Northern woman…_ But at the same time, she is glad to be looked as a child. The weight of men's stares, so long endured, is all but gone. Never in her life, has Sansa been so glad to be overlooked, to be dismissed as not a worthless woman or a sexual object, but instead an innocent child with no chance of being a player in any sort of game.

Brienne steps back, just a pace, brows furrowed, hands hovering and at the ready, in case that Sansa makes a fool of herself.

"As you wish," she says softly, nodding gently.

Sansa turns back to the horse and sets her jaw in slight determination. _I must become accustomed to it, as no wheel-house nor liter will be so ready to use most of the time. I must be self-reliant where I am able, just as I was forced to do before. Now it will not be forced- It will be done with_ _ **ease**_ _._ She tries to copy her sister's movements, leg and all, as she doubts she can mount as is due to a lady without making a fool of herself. She nearly falls, but for her own determination, she waves off Brienne and comes to be astride the horse, like a man. She arranges her skirts quickly, the reflexes of a grown woman needing to guard her body compelling her, pressing her green skirt as proper as she could, hindered by the back seat of her saddle.

The first thing she notes that is it far more comfortable than to sit side-saddle, even without a stirrup in the correct place and sighs in reluctance.

"Theon," she calls, somewhat unhappily, gripping tightly at the reins, "Is it possible to find a normal saddle, instead of a lady's saddle?"

Brienne raises a broad brow, gentle surprise, but she sees understanding in her beautiful eyes. But the Greyjoy Ward's mouth falls open, his shock for a moment removing the small smirk that is so prominent on his face. At eight and ten, Theon Greyjoy was just one cusp of true manhood, and while Sansa had never seen him as handsome, his arrogance taking him to be so unattractive, there was something heartening in seeing him… _Whole._ Like most times, when she sees the before, the boy before the wrecked creature that Ramsey had made, she feels a certain fondness, and unease all in the same moment. Because despite the events that had taken Winterfell, the hell that had found him afterward was not something she would have wished for him.

No one deserved Ramsey.

 _You could betray us. In order to prove yourself to a man, you remember from boyhood, to remove the stain of being nothing but a hostage... But if we show you just a little more love, will you side with us instead? Will you ignore the call of your homeland? I am not sure._

"I agree with Sansa," says Arya, frowning down at her own, "This saddle is stupid."

Theon's mouth comes to a close before he gives a sharp nod.

"I'm sure I'll find something."

Sansa dismounts and nearly falls flat on her face. She manages to catch herself against the horse and waves off Brienne's hovering hand. She, despite her internal age, cannot stop the small flush as Arya lets out a loud snicker. Had she been her body's true age, she would have screamed at her sister for- For, well, making her feel embarrassed. Instead, she managed to force a soft giggle, because Arya is only a child with childish humor that was not meant to be cruel. Arya hopped off of her pony in a bouncing dismount, her snickers blending with Sansa's practiced giggles. Her little sister shifts and gives her a small smile, which Sansa's allows herself to return. Their small moment is taken from them as Theon takes the reins of Sansa's horse, and Brienne, frowning, but not saying a word, goes to attend Arya's.

She follows the Greyjoy into the stables careful of her riding skirt and her boots, Arya bouncing behind her, with Brienne at their heels. Brienne helps Arya, showing her the proper way to unsaddle her small horse, voice soft as she explains the buckles. Sansa watches as Theon removes the saddle they had found to be proper, some remnant of a lady child past, in better condition than she would expect. Sansa wonders, but is not sure if it is her personal saddle, memories of nearly a decade long faded. She suspects it is, but cannot know for sure. _I never rode much, never bothered to be any good at it. Only expected to be lead by my gallant lord._ She pays careful mind of what Theon is removing, her brows intent.

"Wouldn't you prefer this saddle?" Theon's question is soft, and he doesn't look at her as he removes the small, dainty seat, making a show of heaving it off of the gentle mare, leaving the pale blue blankets as he went to examine the racks for another saddle, "You shouldn't let how everyone else rides make you think less of the proper way to ride."

"I should," she replies, allowing another small smile to appear.

Theon looks back at her, brow raised. A curious look in his eyes. Such a stark difference from the dead look that had greeted her in Winterfell so long ago. Such a difference from the skittish fright that had filled them when she had whispered his true name in sheer surprise.

"Aye. You want to be a proper lady, do you not?"

"I am a proper Lady," she says, gracefully dipping her head. That much has not changed, from when she had been but a bastard girl in name, she had been a _lady,_ damn what anyone else said, "But I also wish to be a proper rider."

Theon smiles, a sort of a smirk.

"Need more than a saddle to be a proper ridder, there."

"That comes with practice."

"Not much practice time, with all your airs there, Sansa. I should help you learn to ride nice and proper."

If she had been but a child of ten, such a comment would have flown above her head. She would have thanked Theon prettily, but with ill ease at his expression. As a woman of twenty namedays in her mind, something close to cold fury enters her, as she watches the turn of his mouth turn into that lean, clever smile of his. It was the smile that always made her ignore him, the boy-man that Robb always had at his heels. He had always made her uncomfortable, made her annoyed that this future Lord was so… Unlikeable. So rude. So uncourteous to her. She understands the innuendo of his words, the laughter in his eyes at what he no doubt believes is a clever quip.

She watches, out of the corner of her eye, as Brienne goes stock still, her back stiff as she straightens out. Her sworn shield turns a fire in her eyes, her hand going to the sword on her hip.

Sansa knew she had to defuse the situation and gives Theon the prettiest, soft smile she can hope to give despite her own disgust at his words.

"How kind of you, Theon, if I ever have a need for an instructor, you will be the first I call. I heard you were a fine archer even from horseback, so you must be an excellent rider to be so steady. Thank you for the offer."

That gets a smile from him, a true one, softer, easing his usual smirk.

"Alright. Anytime you need it, Sansa."

A finely gloved hand goes to hesitantly cup her cheek, in an awkward but startlingly affectionate gesture.

He turns away from her quickly and lifts a small saddle, worn, at the very back of the small area of racks. She sees that the back of his neck is flushed with his pleasure, or perhaps embarrassment at the compliment, or even his forwardness with physical affection, or his own boldness of words against someone he sees as someone being so young. _So many insecurities._ She turns to Brienne, sees how tightly she holds her jaw and her sword before she gives the slightest shake of her head. Brienne frowns before she gives Sansa a sharp if dissatisfied nod in acceptance. No doubt, if pushed too far her sworn shield would stop holding her tongue even if Sansa commanded her to cease. It had been a frustrating constant, of trying to ease Brienne's well-meaning if unneassary defense of any insult directed her way.

The saddle that Theon picks is old, made of soft, supple and worn leather. It is stitched with thrones and pale faded five-pointed leaves that must have been bright red at one point, the leaves of the heart-tree. Snarling direwolves line the head of the saddle. It was a strange mixture of masculine practicality and delicate female beauty in the stitching.

"This should fit," says Theon, measuring against the other saddle. It was a bit bigger, obviously meant for a woman instead of a young girl, but adjustable enough in the stirrups to match her height, so it would be serviceable.

"Thank you, Theon, for arranging this."

"... It was Robb's idea," he dismisses, but his chest is slightly thrown out nonetheless.

"Thank you nonetheless."

Robb, Jon, and Bran arrive, two large saddlebags in hand each, just after they have finished preparing all of their horses. They are grinning, ear to ear as they attach the large saddlebags to their horses. They surprise her by clapping Theon on the back, Jon lifts Arya into a circle, before passing her off to Robb, and they both plant a loud kiss on Sansa's cheeks. Bran simply watches on with a large grin, his eyes blue and alive. It eases her heart every single time, to see the humanity in her younger brother.

"You're cheery," she says, softly, as she clumsily remounts.

Both Robb and Jon swing up gracefully, easily.

"Father's given us the entire morning off. Some of the older Lords are going off for a quick morning hunt- the usual deer herd was spotted too nearby to pass off," says Robb, cheerfully, "They should be back by early afternoon with some venison."

"... We thought it would be nice, for a break away from so many strangers," said Jon, with a much too casual shrug, "So father approved for the long ride with just the family. Or well, some of us, anyway."

Sansa hesitates.

"Will mother and father need me-"

"No. Our instructions are clear. We are to ride to a specific glen that father says is lovely this time of year," Robb says, stern.

Sansa nearly protests, but Brienne's hand on her arm is a soft, but perhaps needed reminder. She gives her sworn shield a look. Brienne gives her a soft if knowing smile. Sansa forced a breath. _Enjoy things you did not before… Spend time with those you missed. Winter is Coming, but I know when._ She returns her nod and a small amount of her smile.

"If it's just family, why is she joining us?" says Bran, curiously, looking at Brienne, who looked out of place amongst them with her lovely armor.

Brienne flushes as she mounts, and shifts uneasily in her full plate on her tall mare, easily the largest horse amongst them. _"I need to strengthen myself- I tire much too easily in a full set."_ Her sworn-shield is the epitome of someone who struggles with social graces. Once, it had made Sansa somewhat frustrated to encounter someone so innocent of the nuances of social interaction, or so blindingly determined to ignore them. Later, Sansa had grown to find the awkwardness charming, and refreshing in the wake of having spent the majority of her adulthood with schemers and snakes. The more she had come to know Brienne, in the last two years of their lives… The more she had come to rely upon, even care for this woman.

She had _become_ family.

That had been precious in the Second Long Night… Now, she could never deny Brienne as being so important for her, especially since she had come to Sansa once again. Sansa knew how little the rest of her family knew of Brienne. Jon and Robb knew her through a second-hand account, and trusted her for the esteem she showed the older woman. But her younger siblings and Theon knew nothing of her beyond the fact that she had been seen following Sansa, she was a strange Stormlander, and she could swing her sword.

"She is my very dear friend, like family," replies Sansa, smiling.

Arya grins brightly, eagerly nodding. Her younger sister had come to care for her already, and Sansa suspects it has something to do with the fact that Brienne had taken to staying with Arya through her morning sword practice.

"Odd for you to find such a friend," comments Theon, leering at the physically younger woman, "Where'd you find this one, eh, Sansa?"

Brienne visibly grits her teeth. Theon was exactly the wrong type of person to interact with her serious sworn-shield. He, in some ways, was like Ser Jaime- an arrogant handsome male that has been built from birth to understand their importance in life. But in the end, he was just an insecure boy playing at being a man, a hurt boy used as a pawn in the grand Game that was Westeroian politics. But such plays would annoy her honorable friend, especially since she was not as forgiving of Theon's role in the future possible events as Sansa was.

The fact that he took nearly nothing seriously for the sake of his persona would make it worse.

"I'm just saying- If anyone should be here it should be Jeyne. She's been hanging around me asking about you, Sansa. She cries so _much._ "

Sansa blinks and just shakes her head. She had mixed feelings over her childhood friend. Innocent Jeyne, who had been so excited like her, to go to King's Landing. Poor Jeyne, caught just as Sansa was, but in a more precarious situation. She had not the thin protection of being engaged to the new King, however much he had disliked her, she had not the thin protection of being the eldest daughter to a Great House. She had been sold off as if she was Arya to Ramsey, _the fake she-wolf_. Sansa mourned the girl she had loved so dearly in girlhood when she had been brought to Winterfell at last.

Jeyne's body, flayed, hanging over the open gates had greeted her home, a sign hanging around her neck, warning of any more fake wolf cunts to enter the domain of Lord Bolton, Warden of the North.

But the girl, the young child that greeted her here in the past?

"Jeyne is needed by her father this morning, I had already invited her," she returns stiffly.

Jeyne had been displeased with her when she had invited her, and part of it had to do with Brienne hovering behind her. The sheer dislike that the young girl had thrown at Brienne had been very visible, and the jealousy even more so. Her face had been red and pinched, tears hovering in her warm eyes. Sansa had no idea how comfort the child that Jeyne was in a way that would please her. Sansa's memories of her time with the girl were vague at best. Poor Jeyne had faded just as her father had, the only stark memory of them had been what was left of them, mutilated but horribly recognizable.

With her current duties, and who she had become in the course of her life… Jeyne was just no longer someone that Sansa could seriously interact with. Her family, young as they were, were what had she had wanted for so _long_. Jeyne the girlhood friend was something so removed from her, such a far away memory she had not clung to. Sansa's only goal was to try and give her family a better fighting chance of the coming turmoil. She made concessions, made the effort to understand her family as she hadn't before. And both those priorities made relationships that had been so valuable to her in childhood fall away.

"Let's go," calls Arya, impatiently.

Theon rolled his eyes, a flash of uncertainty on his face, but made no other comment. With a couple of guards along with them, the younger part of the House Stark save baby Rickon, made their way out of Winterfell. It was a lovely day, the Summer evident in the small dusting of snow that littered the ground, no doubt set to melt by mid-afternoon. The temperature was evenly cool, not enough for furs and warm enough to get away with light cloaks to keep away the wet that any snowfall would bring. They kept an even, steady pace, easy conversation flowing between them all as they rode towards their destination. Sansa, as horrid as she was at ridding, found herself at the back of the small party, watching as Brienne conversed with Arya with large, delightful gestures on the part of Arya and quiet amusement on the part of their sworn shield. Jon and Robb surrounded Theon and she saw their choice and eagerness to try and sway the man from becoming a turn-cloak.

"Sansa," said Bran, quietly, startling her. Expertly, he slows the pace of the horse, and she admired the young boy of five namesdays being such an easy rider. She must look like an oaf in comparison.

She turned to her younger brother, giving him a polite smile. His eyes were bright, alive and her heart felt light because of it. He was so human that Sansa's heart ached in joy.

"You… You seem different lately," he said, but his face was not concerned nor alarmed, merely curious.

"I know I must seem so," she replies.

Bran, unlike Arya, was not so confrontational of the changes that had happened to Sansa. He left the comment sit in the air for a moment as if he was weighing it.

"Are you alright?"

The question was innocent, from a brother who only saw a drastic change and no reason.

"Yes," Sansa could not lie, not to her family if she could help it. Bran would understand, when he was older, he was the second heir, until Robb had children of his own. Sansa hoped to tell them all, even Rickon, what had occurred to her and Brienne. Who she really was, what had happened to all of them...

But not yet.

She would leave them to their Summer filled dreams yet. They were too young. Not old enough to keep their tongues, not old enough to understand the horror that could befall them all. She, Father and Mother had agreed. They would learn of the truth of what House Stark truly was working for, _survival against the South, against the Others, against Winter,_ once they had turned three and ten, the same age as Jon and Robb had learned of the truth. It would give them time to be children and the fewer people who knew of the future and of Jon's true parentage, the better in Sansa's opinion. As much as she wished to tell her younger siblings, she could not.

"I'm glad Sansa. You seem… Not happy. But… Focused," said Bran, as he struggled to phrase his view of her.

"I am both," she replied, honestly and she gave him a kind smile.

Those blue eyes, light and still human, sparkled.

"You and Arya do not fight. Mother and Father look to you. Robb and Jon don't play as much," his tone was questioning, but not accusing.

 _Are all us Starks that observant?_

"Winter is Coming, Bran. We have to be ready for it. Mother and Father need me for that."

Bran was quiet for a moment, eyes drifting somewhere beyond the horizon, the grip on the reins of his pony tightened slightly.

"Everyone is going to fight over this Winter, aren't they? Every time we go into the Great Hall everyone is so… _Angry._ And bored of talking. But not you Sansa… You are focused."

Sansa feels… Something. Not quite heavy, but tangible in the air. And it comes from her brother. Her heart speeds and Sansa reaches to touch Bran on the arm. The feeling persists. And Bran reaches to grip her hand. His hold is impossibly delicate against her small hand. His eyes are far away and seem darker, grey instead of blue. Sansa dares not breathe as those eyes turn to her.

Bran smiles.

Its wolvish, savage sort of thing.

Then he blinks. And the air is clear and light. His eyes are innocent and bright blue that matches her mother's, and his savage smile turns into a quizzical one. He looks to their gripped hands, brows furrowed in confusion. Sansa controls her breathing and gives his arm a squeeze. Bran returns the squeeze as she withdrawals, her mouth dry.

"Sorry, did you want something Sansa?"

"No, Bran. I think you were falling asleep in your saddle. I reached out to steady you."

Bran gives an embarrassed grin, his flush emphasizing the scattering of freckles across his face.

"Thank you, Sansa. I'm going to ride a little faster to keep myself awake."

"Do not ride too ahead of our brothers."

He gave her a grin, again, and rode ahead without a word. Sansa stared after him, heart still galloping in her chest. _I knew this to be a possibility. What did Arya say, once? Sometimes it was as if she was Nymeria herself in her dreams, and she would know things because of it…_ _ **Feel**_ _things that escaped me. The same thing with Jon with his aunt's dragon and Ghost. It must be magic I lost because of Lady's death. Is magic within the blood of the First Men and the Andals? Will I lose my younger brother to that magic once again? And worst of all… Is there nothing within my power to at least keep some of the boy that wished to be a gallant knight?_ Sansa shook her head, once and squared her shoulders. All thoughts to bring to her parents, her brothers and Brienne. _I am_ _ **not**_ _alone._ She allowed whatever worry that had come to her aside. She would assess this with others later. At the moment, it was all for enjoying the Summer morning with most of her siblings.

Sansa stayed at the back of the party for their short ride, silent and enjoying the feel of the sunshine on her skin. It allowed her to observe her family openly and enjoy the sight of them _healthy,_ _ **whole**_ _and happy._ Brienne would send her looks, but Sansa would wave towards Arya. That was a friendship that had never fully bloomed, and with a less jaded Arya, Sansa knew Brienne would find true kinship. They were so strikingly similar and Sansa was glad for both of them to bond. Arya's true innocence would do Brienne good to recover from the horrors of the Future, and Brienne would make a fine role model for Arya, as honorable as she was.

The boys, she was also pleased to note, were bounding as boys only could, heckling and boasting, and Theon's face looked the most relaxed she had seen in a long time. By the time they had made it to the clearing, the dew of the morning had gone, but it was early yet. It was a small break in the woods, away from the direction that the herd of deer had been traveling to, and was full of fragrant flowers that sparked color. A distant stream gave off a musical babel and Sansa's heartfelt content as she watched her family dismount with such open, relaxed faces. She could not remember if this had ever happened before, or if she had thought it tedious and unimportant before...

They took great pains of laying out the treated canvas for the ground, before placing out softer wool blankets on top, forgoing the furs as the morning was turning out to be a warm one. The standing guards gave out platters and the boys unloaded their saddle bags. Arya and Bran chose that moment to be unhelpful and run around as Sansa and Brienne organized their meal to the best of their ability. The meal was simple, but filing amount of cool porridge, sliced ham and toasted bread, fresh and dried fruit and bread slathered in various jams.

Robb revealed a wineskin, winked at their amused guards who turned a blind eye, and the Reach Gold was passed around to those who could stomach it. Sansa politely declined, as wine was never something she had found particularly appealing, especially in the wake of how much the Lannisters had enjoyed it. _Besides, I like my wits about me._ Arya dared a sip and spat it out straight into an unsuspecting Theon's face, which caused the older boy to chase the girl around amid their laughter.

He caught Arya by the collar of her riding habit, who was howling in laughter even as Theon threw her over his shoulder, spanking the giggling girl in his displeasure. Brienne tensed, automatically going for her steel sword, but at the shake, if Sansa's head she stood down. The guards, people Sansa did not really remember, shifted uneasily. Their faces were stern, their grips were tight on their spears. One of the guards stepped forward, with a scowl on his face. At the jerk of her head, Robb waved them off, brows furrowed. Theon unaware, or perhaps long used to such behavior, dumped Arya, who was still laughing despite the spanking, unceremoniously on top a laughing Jon.

"That's enough of that," scolded out the elder boy, wagging his finger at her, "You ruined my doublet and wasted good wine, Underfoot."

Arya, red from her giggles, stuck out her tongue. Then she scrambled off of Jon.

"That stuff is _foul_ ," she said with all the wisdom and certainty of the child she was.

"You're not old enough to understand," replied Theon, flushing.

"It just makes you stupid."

Theon, realizing he was arguing with a child, rolled his eyes, and picked up the discarded wineskin, which had been kicked by Arya and Theon alike, the white wine spilled onto the grass.

"What a waste," he said, mournfully, but it was clearly meant as a jest.

He checked the skin, but it was all but empty. He sighed and tossed his head back to drink the rest in a deep swig.

"Is that all you brought Robb?" Theon asked as he tossed the empty skin aside.

Robb shrugged.

"It should have been enough for just the morning, Theon."

Theon gave out another sigh, dropping heavily to the ground in slight disgust. A silence fell across them, but it was comfortable as a fire in a hearth. Sansa felt the most relaxed that she had in a very long time, all looming thoughts of Winter and what Bran had done pushed away for the moment.

 _Winter is Coming… But not yet. Not soon. I can_ _ **enjoy this.**_

Or she would if Theon had not opened his fat mouth.

"More people coming to Winterfell, Robb. These Tyrells, from the South, where is you Father putting them all?"

Sansa frowned at the reminder, shifting slightly. Robb shot her a look. At her silence, he answered Theon with his own words. Sansa could see a reliance from her elder brother starting to form, and she was trying to curb it. Much as she liked her opinion and direction being valued, Robb could make solid decisions. He had won every battle he had ever fought in the future- she was only there to make sure he _lived_ to win whatever war would come their way.

"There's is a small party, apparently, as a courtesy to our full castle. Winterfell is large enough. I mean, my grandfather is coming as well."

"We'll never have a moment's peace," grouched Theon, "Northern lords. Southern Lords. What's next, the bleeding King?"

"Father is supposed to be his friend," called Bran, importantly, "Maybe we will see him soon."

"Know anything about the Tyrells?"

"Their words are Grow Strong!"

"Growing Strong, Bran," corrected Sansa, gently, "Their words are 'Growing Strong', their sigel is a golden rose upon a greenfield. They are High Lords of the Reach, field the seven kingdom's greatest army as the most populous Kingdom, a fleet to rival that of King's Landing by their bannerman and have one of the most fertile lands of the Seven Kingdoms. They are a rich house, second only by the Lannisters of the Westerlands."

Bran stared at her blinking, Arya, Theon, doing much the same.

"How'd you know all that?" asked Theon, loudly, brows furrowed.

Sansa gave a delicate sniff.

"Well, I pay attention to my lessons."

Theon stared at her before rolled his eyes.

"I suppose you dream of finding their heir handsome, and a knight? Fancy yourself the future Lady of High Garden, do you, Sansa?"

"I wouldn't expect Lady Sansa to find Lord Wilas appealing," snarled Brienne, tersely. She was not pleased of the coming of the Tyrells, and was only so calm about it because she knew that Loras had recently been sent to squire with Lord Renly, "He is more than ten years her senior… And could never be a knight."

"Why not?" asked Bran, curiously.

"I heard he was a cripple," whispered Arya, "I heard the guards talking."

"Wait. That's right, the heir of High Garden is that idiot that got himself injured his first Tourney," said Theon, a chuckle in his voice.

"It was a horrible accident," corrected Brienne with a snap to her voice, and Sansa realized that her sworn shield had been present. She continued, much to everyone's surprise, "I was a girl when it happened, just your age Lady Arya. The opposite rider, Prince Oberyn Martel knocked him clean off his horse- but his foot caught the stirrup as he fell and his horse fell atop of him. He was just a boy, barely old enough to hold the damn lance… Pardon me, Lady Sansa."

Sansa waved her hand, having heard worse from her brothers and Theon all morning.

"So you've been to a Tourney?" asked Bran, excitedly.

"More than one."

"So you've seen knights?! Met them?"

"My fair share of them, yes, Lord Bran."

At that, both Arya and Bran turned their attention to Brienne. Eyes sparkling, as she told of the knights she knew and how they were. Sansa let their enjoyment flow and settled back to be silent and observe her family once again.

"You can't marry a cripple, Sansa," said Theon, eyes sparkling with humor.

Jon shot her a look. She couldn't quite read it, but she could see his unease and the way he was searching her face for something.

"She can marry who she likes," interrupted Robb, sternly, before he gave her a crooked grin, "As long as he's a Northerner."

She pressed her lips together. She had married twice in her life, both marriages done without her true consent. When all this mess with their bannermen and the Southern lords was settled, she would need to broach the subject with her parents. _Father once promised me a good man, a man who was kind, gentle and strong. With all that has happened to me, I know he will grant me an even greater requirement... My own choice in the matter. I will never marry any man that I do not choose for myself._

"I'll marry no one, just to spite you all," she joked, deadpan.

That caused both Theon and Robb to let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"Ha! That I doubt. Sansa Stark not marrying anyone- That is a poor jest, Sansa, did you not say your nameday celebration last that you wished for your parents to betroth you to someone?"

"I was young and foolish."

"You are still ten namedays, Sansa."

She gave a soft, smile.

"I suppose I am."

 _And isn't that a wonderful thing? To be so young again, my whole life ahead of me?_

* * *

 **OKAY. Let's address the Elephant in the room.**

 **Game of Thrones ending, and what that means for _The Sweetly Sung Queen_ -**

 **Nothing.**

 **It means nothing for the fanfiction. I've already stated that anything beyond a certain season is subject to be non-canon for the fic. That was the plan even if the last season wasn't so... Controversial. I always expected to maybe pull some elements for it, but never really follow it to any serious degree. _The Sweetly Sung Queen_ is a blend of both the show and the books, and I am picking and choosing what I want to incorporate. After the end of the show... Well. Let's just say I will be kindly ignoring most of it.**

 **If anyone cares, my opinion was thus:**

 **Why did the showrunners _rush_ this? Like, I don't hate where everyone ended up, except for Dany being... Well, spoiler alert if you somehow have managed to avoid the way the internet has blown up over this: _dead via Jon stabbing_. Like, I really didn't hate most of it. My girl Sansa, Queen in the North? _Good_. Brienne is alive? Sweet. Tyrion isn't dead? Coolio. Arya did something _important_ instead of just becoming a cool but superfluous death ninja and killed the Night King? _Good for fucking her, 'bout time the girl does something that actually affects other characters._ Petyr and Cersei are dead? _Awesome. I hope someone dances on their graves._ Bran is King of the Six Kingdoms? _Erm okay, I guess I can see that if you make it work(I really don't think they made it work)._ Jon is alive and runs off North of where the Wall used to be? _Super. He didn't want to be King anyway, even if he would have been a good one._ DANY SON OF A BIT- **

**But I honestly really didn't hate everything that happened. With the way they were setting up Dany, I saw her death coming, even if I think they handled it with the grace of a monkey banging out _Othello_ on a typewriter. Dany going mad was an ending I didn't like but would have accepted if they had handled it with a little more time. I think I just feel that the journey of season seven through eight that got to those conclusions were where I had the biggest problems. It was clunky and rushed and it should have been a little longer to flesh out certain bits. Winter lasted like _two episodes and the Night King did not fucking matter._ Like. It was... Anti-climatic. That was the best way I could describe how I felt after the ending. I didn't hate the End, just the _way and what it took to get how_ it Ended if that makes any sense.**

 **Also. Jaime should have killed Cersei. Just. Saying. Not them both getting crushed by things outside their control. Like, Jaime should have fallen trying to get away from the ruble, Cersei should have almost gotten away before Jaime grabbed her ankle and tripped her. Or maybe as Dany is going all Mad Queen on everyone outside, Jaime talks to Cersei who is indifferent to the whole thing, or says something that triggers Jaime and causing the whole strangling bit of her Prophecy before he gets crushed. Poetic justice that was just not there...**

 **Anywho. Yup. That's my two cents of the matter.**

 **Beyond that, I just want to reassure everyone that the Season Eight is not going to show up much if at all in _The Sweetly Sung Queen_ and that the next chapter should be out soonish. Its... 73 % done or so. More or less, I really just have to finish the conclusion and edit it a bit. It is called _Flowers,_ introduces The Tyrells in the North(If anyone is curious, its Ser Garlen, Lord Wilas, Lady Olenna and Lady Margery) and Hoster Tully, who will play a slightly larger part until his death. And its Sansa POV.**


	15. Flowers

_**Flowers**_

" _The fairest thing in nature, a flower, still has its roots in earth and manure," D. H. Lawrence._

Sansa fights the grandest urge to fidget as another wheelhouse of the South comes into the courtyard of Winterfell once again.

The entourage of armored men upon horseback, both the parties of the Tyrell and Tully flood past the gate, glidded and glittering figures after the beautiful structure pulled by a dozen or so white horses. Golden roses in a field of green and leaping trouts upon a blue river and a bank of red mud, jumping on rich banners, flowing in the wind along with the lightest of summer snow. The parties, she guesses, must have joined midway to Winterfell. Stumbled across each other, no doubt, on the Kings Road. The parties seem to move apart, eying each other warily, blues, reds and golds, greens go through the gates of Winterfell in a clear divide. They split in almost synchronization, riders and carts of supplies pulling away from each other as fast as they can in the large outer courtyard.

 _They have no quarrel, yet there is always such a tension in the Houses of the South._

The flashes of armored men lead the front of all the parties, gilded, shining armor that would have had her ecstatic at this age before, a stark contrast to the men of the North that had come before them, with leathers and mail covered in fur and taciturn wool. Scaled armor of the Riverlands plays contrast to the silver smooth plates of the Reach, and cloaks of vine velvet of silk are draped across or behind elegant parties of the South look… Beautiful. As if they had leaped from the songs and stories that had so held her admiration and attention as a girl. But appearances are only one thing. Anything can be outwardly beautiful, much as she pained her to think, Queen Cersei Lannister had only ever been surpassed in beauty by Queen Daenerys. Even King Joffrey had been beautiful…

It just leaves a sour taste on her tongue, to see something that would have had her besotted come to Winterfell, with her cynical mind to kill all enjoyment of it. Knights, men in armor, the words of the Hound come to her mind; _All men are killers._ Even if she knew the men lined in silver, red and blue would die for her as a slightly removed daughter of the House. And that the Roses had no need to harm her to further their goals quite yet…

They still make part of her uneasy.

The great Lord of Highgarden Mace has not come, a slight some would say, to send only his crippled heir, his second son, and elderly mother, but Sansa acknowledges that it is the very opposite. Lady Olenna had no doubt had no wish for her foolish son to muck up an important trade agreement. Her eyes flicker from face to face, most unfamiliar, and lock onto one of the few she knows. _She_ has come as well, the girl who wanted to claim her as a sister. Lady Margaery is the only face that is truly familiar… She is a beautiful thing, even as young as two and ten name days, a lively looking thing that shifts uneasily in her saddle. She could almost be bouncing in it, if it not for her own restraint, as it was Margaery is shifting restlessly. Her curls, Sansa notes with some petty satisfaction, are not quite as tame as they would be in a few years time, pretty enough, but wild by both the Northern wind and that of someone who has yet to find the perfect way to manage one's hair.

Her face is clear and pale with rosy undertones. Her riding attire is expensive and completely impractical silk lined with what seems to be only a little fur of some sort of brown animal, green and vividly decorated with golden roses of her sigel, hand-stitched no doubt by her own steady hand. Her cloak, thick but unlined, is all but useless in wake of the snowfall that had started but a few hours ago, more than likely not treated to be waterproof. The icy crystals line it and the girl looked half-frozen, but lively as she always is, that shy and sweet smile on her face as she looks around with polite interest.

" _She… Died. I believe," Ser Jaime Lannister is quiet. He is always quiet when he speaks to her._

 _He looks at her, he always does, straight in the eye. Had she been a weaker person, even just a little, the sight of that horribly familiar green would make her look away. For they are Cersei's eyes. Joffrey's eyes. But she does not. Had he been a more craven man, even just a little, he could not bear to look at her either. For she is his salivation, his restoration in himself… And he came much too late to save her completely. He had come for the innocent girl that had been smuggled out of King's Landing… And come instead to find a hardened woman. She thinks that eats at him, even as he serves so faithfully with Brienne as her guard._

" _How?" her voice is not soft, nor does it trembled. It is placid and normal volume as if she were inquiring over something mundane, instead of the death of someone she had once called her friend._

" _Cersei. She always hated the girl. Jealous, I'd expect, of how beautiful she was. Of her ease… At everything. The smallfolk, manners. She always raged about her… And I believe she began to suspect about Joffrey's death, or perhaps she was using that as an excuse to justify her need to crush the Tyrells."_

 _The memory of his death is not a happy one. Sansa had been too numb to really rejoice in it. The fact that she had been used as a pawn for it made her furious in retrospect. But now she can rejoice in the lack of feeling that Jaime Lannister has in his voice over the death of his natural son. Love is poison indeed if one cannot even bring to feel anything over the death of a child that is a product of that love. She knows not why, but Sansa feels it as a victory over Cersei Lannister to see Jaime Lannister so indifferent over their son's death._

" _One cannot be 'growing strong' if one does not have roots. Margaery was their seed to the throne," she said simply, quietly, "Beloved beyond that. It would be war at her death. Cersei digs herself quite a grave… And the rest of the Tyrells at court?"_

 _Jaime sighs heavily, shifting uncomfortably._

" _I know not. With Tommen's death, I hear Cersei grew more unstable. My leave before that more than likely did her no favors in that department. If any survived, it was because they fled."_

Sansa's heart beats fast. She knew not Margaery's real fate, beyond vagueness from Jaime Lannister, something she found dubious at best, even how he had changed and even on how he had wanted salvation and restored honor in the face of the Second Long Night. But there is something heartening in seeing the girl alive. Margaery had tried to help her, in her own way, even it would have benefited her family above helping Sansa. The fact that she had thrown Sansa to the lions just moments later- She does not think that it had been done with personal malice. But practicality, and though Sansa knew not how deeply Margery had been involved in the King's poisoning, she knew it had not been a plot hatched personally by the girl. _I can thank that to Petyr and Lady Olena. How much you confessed to me, in the end, Petyr. How much you thought me_ _ **yours.**_ Behind her, Brienne shifts uneasily, walking forward, pressing her full lips to Sansa's ear.

"My queen," it is barely a whisper, but it is an encouragement. Sansa would never be Queen again, but0 it was a title that reminders of what she once was, and she cannot begrudge Brienne's use of it.

For Sansa takes strength in that, releasing a breath she hadn't known she held in a soft huff. She gives her sworn shield but a glance, nodding slightly in thanks. Her hands, hidden in her cloak reach out to touch against her friend's hand. Brienne has never been a creature of great slyness nor gyle- she beams in response before she steps back at the further approach of the two parties.

Her eyes flicker away from the Maid of Tarth, to the man she remembers in the barest of recollections. She had met him once, or twice, perhaps, before her turn in King's Landing. Vague memories of him come to her mind, of praise for her delicate nature, for her sweet smile and her appearance so like her mother at that age. Hoster Tully is not quite old, as she would think at fifty, but he seems… Weathered. It is the best way she can really think to describe him.

He is a weathered and tired man, wrinkles, while not deep, line his mouth, his eyes, his thick, calloused hands. He shares her mother's eyes, her rosy complexion and that shock of red hair, but they seem wane, dull and flat in comparison. Lesser by stress and what is possibly the early stages of his illness. He still stands tall, broad and slightly fat, the young man he once was implied in the way he easily gets off his tall horse. The current Lord of the Riverlands is yet not bedridden, as he would in a few years time, being so ready to meet his goodson on trade negotiations, not rendered weak quite yet. But his countenance is not one of vitality or long life. It is no wonder that this man would die in the wake of his illness and leave the Riverlands to her untested Uncle.

She is distracted from her grandfather when she notices one of the armored clad Tyrells, helm with a brilliant green plume but otherwise indistinguishable goes to aid one of the men at the head of Tyrell's party, just ahead of Lady Margaery, and she blinks as the young man, roughly her mental age, as he comes down from the saddle, leaning heavily against the horse. One leg is bent, slightly, and the young man makes a point of not placing any weight upon it until his unbent leg is firmly on the ground. It is ringed with a strange brace of metal, bronze, and gold. The Knight hands him a cane, a gorgeous thing of fine golden wood, tipped with actual gold and intricately carved with small roses, lined with gold leaf.

 _Willas Tyrell. The heir of Highgarden,_ she thinks her lips twitching away from her polite smile into a frown, _My would-be husband. My, I had many of those._ He is not as beautiful as Margaery nor Loras, is the first thing she notes. The second is that he is a tall, slender man, with brown hair that matches his siblings, though his curls are shorn close to his head, and the eyes that go to their party are more gold then doey brown, sharp and somewhat narrowed. He has no beard on his finely sculpted face but is slightly tanned. He is handsome, despite not being as fair as his siblings, she notes, somewhat amused. She would not have been opposed to the marriage to this man if she had ever seen him.

 _But, I wonder, who are you like, in true character? Are you monstrous like Joffrey and Ramsey, or falsely sweet like Harry, or cool and calculating as Petyr? Or perhaps even more rare a creature, and have some gentleness as did Tyrion?_

The door of the wheelhouse of the Tyrell is tossed open, almost violently, and she feels her back tense as the Queen of Thorns is aided down from the steps by Lady Margaery, who almost inelegantly dashed for the door. They move together as one, arm and arm, some selective ladies of Highgarden leaving behind the old woman, like colorful birds of Essos fleeing their cages. Lord Willas falls into step next to his sister and his grandmother. The Knight falls into step on the other side of Lady Olenna. _Ser Garlan, then…. How different from Loras, with so little decoration on his armor!_ His armor is almost plain, save for the imprint of the Two Tyrell golden roses on his breastplate, and the brilliant plume of green on his helm.

The ladies and the few knights fall in line behind the main branch of the Tyrells. Cousins, no doubt, or perhaps prominent bannerman's children who were fostering at Lady Olenna's feet. For the Tyrell's the party was indeed small, as Robb had told Theon, only three ladies of noble birth and three knights beyond Ser Garlan. It was subdued, a party of ten. Their soldiers were a single platoon, and Sansa believed that many of those men were to be directed to sleep outside in tents, as castle barely had enough room for Lords and Ladies, let alone their men.

The roses moved in sync towards them, as a cohesive unit, a strong contrast to the lone figure that her grandfather creates as he makes his way towards the assembled House of Stark.

 _Roses do indeed grow strong. They are together, ready..._

"Welcome," it is her father that speaks, and Sansa felt uneasy as _these_ guests look at them all with undisguised interest. "To Winterfell, House Tully, House Tyrell."

"Let's get the salt and the bread over with," is Lady Olenna's helpful grouch, voice sharp if pleasant, "This cold could kill me and there's too much to be done."

As always Sansa feels a sense of both respect and hesitation in her at the character of the wise, shrewd old woman.

"My lady, we are to partake it inside. It is our wish to simply greet you within the courtyard."

"Queer to want to freeze yourselves for our sake. For Hoster, I understand, but for us, we know each other not, boy."

"It's not that cold," and Sansa almost wishes to groan as Arya speaks up, brows furrowed.

Love her sister as she might, she finds it most confronting that despite everything, Arya had the infuriating knack for Sansa to want to throttle her at her social gaffes.

Lady Olenna's keen gaze moves straight to her sister. Something in Sansa wants to step in front of her, but she reframes. Olenna Tyrell is not harmless. She is not benign. But neither is she needlessly cruel. Arya is safe. For now. It is with that in mind that she gives a slight shake of her head, rolling her eyes for her effect at Brienne, who looked as if she wished to step forward. Her sworn shield gives a slight nod as well, an uneasy, but true smile appearing on her lips at her silent command.

"Oh?"

"It's only summer snow. That's not cold. Winter is Coming- but it isn't here."

Amusement flickers across the wizened face of the Queen of Thorns. Enough that the old woman actually smiles at Arya.

"Hmph. So the Starks can bare this? Wonders how this horrible land can become so cold in what you call summer. No wonder you Northerners want to undermine trade negotiations that have been in place since before your birth girl if _this_ is only summer."

A cold sweat starts at the back of Sansa's back.

 _You come to see to the affairs of the Reach- that has never been in question- but what else do you seek to find in Winterfell's walls? Southerners are a paranoid lot. Do you think insurrection? Do you think the ever-loyal friend of Robert Baratheon has thought himself better suited to be King? What do you expect to find here in Winterfell? Or perhaps even more horrible, one of you remembers the Future that could occur._

"Please, grandmother-" starts Lord Willas in a pleasantly deep voice, but of course, the Lady Olenna is not deterred by anyone.

"Well. Let's introduce ourselves inside, and then we can settle in as your most unwanted guests. We can get settled and adorn in your Solar on the morrow, Lord Stark, or perhaps somewhere larger if all the other Lords of the North are determined to be here. We have not come all the way from the Reach to only exchange niceties."

Sansa bites back an annoyed sigh as they move into the warmer walls of the inside of Winterfell. The Southerners, both her grandfather and those of the Reach immediately begin to remove their outer-coats, letting out surprised exclamations of the warmth that Winterfell provides. Her father greets her grandfather quietly, before extending a hand to them all. Lady Margaery, she notes, is eying both Robb and Jon who stands next to each other, switching between her handsome brothers with curious, eager eyes. And then her eyes land on her.

Another sweet smile blooms, her cheeks, red from the lingering effects of the cold, emphasizes her eager expression.

Sansa returns the smile. It is not completely warm, but she tries her best as she tries to ignore the memories that this young girl was apart of.

 _We could have been sisters. Would have been if her schemes had just been swifter. Would you have used me then, had I been the wife of your brother? Or would I have been safe, in High Garden, until I sprouted a rose from between my legs for both an heir and for Winterfell?_

"My wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, Lord Willas, Lady Olenna."

"You've aged well, Catelyn Stark. Five children have yet to ruin you, I see. What good news for your daughters' prospects."

Her mother blinks, expression tight at the comment. Her father, forewarned of Lady Olenna, continues the interactions.

"My son and heir, Robb."

"I would think you only Tully boy, were it not for that pale skin and that long nose. Handsome are you not? It will serve well to enchant the ladies I have brought with me. What fun for you and them."

Robb flushes as the ladies behind the Tyrells titter in amusement. Vividly, ducking his head at Lady Olenna's comment.

"My son, Jon."

"Ah. Another handsome fellow. Pity you are only a natural son. But be pleasant to my ladies as well, by all means."

Jon, as Robb, flushes, but Sansa sees the clench in his jaw at the comment of 'natural' son.

"My eldest daughter, Sansa."

Sansa smiles again, dipping into a perfect curtsy, Lady Olenna's eyes, oh her eyes narrow in slight calculation. A smile appears on her face at the same moment. Sweat, cool and unrelenting drip down Sansa's back.

"What a pretty thing. How old are you girl?"

Sansa just stops herself from licking her lips. She keeps her perfect curtsy, polite, and somewhat deep.

"I am ten namedays, my Lady."

"Oh, what a sweet voice you have. Just a little younger than. You will do nicely for a playmate for my granddaughter."

She looks away from her, towards her father. In a second, she has settled a roll for Sansa and dismissed her. Sansa can see the way she looks at her that, can see that the Queen of Thorns has plans for her.

 _A friend for Margaery, so much easier to spy upon us Starks through the view of a child. A possible spouse for Willas- I am one of the few unmarried daughters of the Wardens if the only one beside Arya. A candidate to eliminate as I have a claim of betrothal to the Crown. Father and King Robert are long-time friends, and Joffrey is only a year older than myself. A stronger connection then the Reach who fought for the Mad King. I wonder if you were behind the plot to have Cersei and her brood eliminated and Margaery as a pretty offering in her stead... Or was that just foolish thought of Renly and Sir Loras, as Petyr implied?_

"I would be delighted. Poor host I would be if I would deny your request, my Lady," she speaks quietly, but firmly, voice a sweet as chirp as could be. She lifts herself in the same moment, chin parallel to the ground, "But I am afraid that I have so many duties in the wake of so many guests within the Keep. I will, of course, endeavor to do my best to accompany her around those duties."

The Queen of Thorns, ready to dismiss her, after her statement, stops and looks away from her father. Sansa smiles, prettily, the mask that had been wavering in the wake of emotion, forms perfectly. The sweat on her back stops, as does her unease. _I am what I am. And no sudden change of my flesh can ever take that from me._ Sansa was giving herself a reason to ignore Lady Margaery if she asked a question or inquired over a subject that could expose something best-kept secret. Eyes, firm and direct look at her, and the confidence of what she appears to be settles on Sansa's shoulders. She gives Lady Olenna the innocent young girl that is besotted with her parents, that is duty-bound to do what is asked of her, and that has little time to cater to the needs of every guest with the castle so full.

"Oh, well," the Queen of Thrones is never unsettled, and she leaned against her cane with a sweet smile that is all teeth, "To be left with responsibilities at such a young age. You must be quite dutiful to your parents."

Sansa keeps her smile and dips her head.

"It is an honor to be of use to my parents in as little as I can aide them."

Lady Olenna Tyrell keeps her smile but shifts a brow so high.

"And is this how things are in the North," she all but barks, turning to her father once again, "Children related to duties that take all their time? Is no enjoyment allowed to them?"

"My children understand the need to do what is needed for the sake of the House. Their words are _Winter is Coming_ , but they also know _Family, Duty, and Honor_."

 _Roses may have their thorns. But wolves have teeth and claws._

Lady Olenna looks somewhat surprised, but she does not lose her smile.

"How good of them. Well, my bones are old and tired, and I see my grandchildren are in no better state, despite all their youth. Finish your introductions, we shall do ours, and we will adjourn to whatever chambers you have left for us, Eddard Stark. Near the Ravens, I wager, with all its smell and pomp! We will take it, we cannot be choosey with such important matters to discuss."

Arya is frowning but gives an acceptable curtsy when their Father gestures to her.

"My second daughter, Arya."

"Yes, yes. The one that knows the difference between Summer and Winter. Did you forget the difference between trousers and a skirt, girl?" Lady Olenna is looking at Arya's thin legs clad indeed in one of her finer breeches.

Arya gives the Lady a stronger frown.

"Of course not-" Sansa gives her sister a careful nudge with her shoulder, "My Lady. I like them best, is all. Skirts get in the way of my sword lessons."

Sansa suppresses a sigh as Lady Olenna's brows lifted high on her wrinkled face.

"So it is true of Northern woman- you hold the swords as surely as your men! And you lady of so many responsibilities, do you play with swords as well?" She turned her gaze to Sansa again.

Sansa debates for a moment before she gave a careful nod.

"Yes Milady, but unlike Arya, I have little grace with it. It is a serviceable exercise if anything."

 _Let the world know. I could hide my use of the sword, but it will serve no real purpose. Enough people, even if they knew I could wield the sword, would assume I could only do so to the extent of holding the thing upright. Many people underestimate Brienne, no matter how obvious a warrior she is. What will they think of I, the pretty thing with such thin limbs?_

"Even the one like a lady uses the sword!"

"It is a queer practice," said Lady Margery, voice soft and pretty. She sent Sansa a wide smile, "But it sounds as if it will be enjoyable, Grandmother."

Lady Olenna gave a laugh.

"Will you beg your father for a sword, little rose? He will think he has four sons, instead of three!"

"If she wishes for lessons," came the voice of Ser Garlan, as he removed his helm, "Perhaps you should squire for me, sweet sister! I am in need of a good one."

He was handsome, as Sansa had long suspected. But he was different from the sweet slender look of Ser Loras. He was broad and heavily tanned, and his nose was crooked, as if it had been broken. But his smile, wide, was as soft and shy as his sister's underneath his neat beard. He shared the amber eyes of his elder brother, and Ser Loras's beautiful full curls. She envied how even spending hours within the helm, his chestnut curls were in reasonable order.

"You only wish to order me about."

"Perhaps you will learn than to be silent in formal introductions! Pardon my excitable grandchildren, Lord Stark," remarked Lady Olenna with amusement.

Her father took that as his que and waved his hand.

"I have six children, Lady Olenna. I am as surprised as much as you that they have been so well behaved. My third son, Brandon, and my fourth son is Rickon."

At that Lady Olenna gave Bran and Rickon a wrinkled smile. It was the closest to sweetness Sansa had ever seen in her face.

"And what sweet lads they are."

"I have my Ward, Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, and the Lady Brienne Tarth of the Sapphire Isle with us as well."

Lady Olenna and the Tyrells looked at the additional members of the Household and raised her fine brow once again.

"A yes, the prize of the Greyjoy Rebellion. You look well boy, for a Hostage!"

Theon grimaced and stumbled his way through his bow. His face went pinched for a fraction of a second before he forced a careless smile. It was Robb's turn to speak out of turn. He turned red in the face and placed a hand on Theon's arm in reassurance.

"He is not a hostage to us," he said fiercely, "But another brother."

Theon blinked and looked at Robb before he glanced at the hand on his arm. Lady Olenna hummed.

"Indeed. And what of you _Lady_ Brienne, what brings a Stormlander so far north, in such fine armor for a woman, have you adapted to Northern customs so quickly?"

Brienne flushed.

"I am a friend of the household by chance, my Lady. And I wish to be of service to Lord Stark's daughters… As their protector."

A knowing look crossed Lady Olenna's face. She turned sharply towards Sansa's father. For a fraction of a second, she could see sympathy in those sharp eyes. Without words, Sansa knew Lady Olenna had come to the conclusion many would over the sword lessons and Brienne acting as a sworn-shield.

 _That Aunt Lyanna's fate is the reason for the oddity. An overprotective father would explain Brienne's continued place with me, with us and perhaps will give Arya a better chance to behave as she likes. In this lifetime, I will give my sister the means to be herself without censure._

"A prosperous house indeed. I suppose that means it is our turn- Go on Willas. Tell these strangers who have come to bother them, I am sure they are bursting with curiosity, instead of wishing they could greet their grandfather with affection."

The heir to High Garden gave his grandmother a fond if slightly exasperated smile.

"Forgive my grandmother, Lady Olenna's honesty, House Stark. She is known as the Queen of Thorns, and only because she is so ready to provide her opinion, as rude or unwanted or inappropriate it can be. I am indeed her grandson, Lord Willas Tyrell, heir to High Garden."

He gave a rather elegant bow, for all that his leg bothered him. He rose with the same elegance, and gave a smile that was much sharper than his siblings'. He extended a hand to Ser Garlan.

"My younger brother, Ser Garlan."

Ser Garlan gave an exaggerated flourish with the arm that did not hold his helm and bent as far as he could muster in his full armor. He sent Bran, who looked at him with a wide-eyed admiring look, a wink. Lord Wilas rolled his eyes.

"And the beautiful girl to the fool's left is my most beloved sister, the Lady Margery."

Lady Margery gave a wide, sweet smile again, and bounced in an eager if too energetic curtsy. Sansa gave her a smile in return and waited patiently for the rest of the Ladies and Knights to be introduced. All cousins, Sansa realized, four lesser Tyrells and two Redwynes. Sansa realized that they were not part of the party to come to King's Landing, all those years ago. _The only change is Lord Willas and Ser Garlen- their friends, or confidences?_ Sansa had expected Lady Leonette, at the least, as the future wife of Ser Garlan, but she suspected the engagement had either prevented her coming, or she had yet to be added to the fold of the Tyrells.

"That's enough of that. I am old and tired and will retire until tomorrow. We will talk then, Lord Stark, about what is it exactly you and the North want for Winter. Come along children, aid an old woman and rest yourselves- pretending all that sailing and riding has not exhausted you will not impress our hosts."

The entire Tyrell party bid polite, if overly familiar goodbyes, and once again, Sansa felt something ease as they left their presence, guided by servants to the overcrowded guest chambers.

"Cat," said a warm, deep voice.

Sansa turned to see her mother rush into her father's embrace. She held tightly, and in that moment Sansa knew that her mother wished to tell her father everything- About Sansa, about Aunt Lysa and Petyr. But beyond lingering in her father's comforting embrace, her mother said nothing. _She'll keep her promise, father made her swear on the grave of her mother over keeping my affairs to only those who held the blood of Stark._ She pulled back, holding his hands in her's.

"It is good to see you father," she muttered, warmly, and Sansa heard the emotional exhaustion in her mother's voice.

"My Cat, you have no idea what good it does me to see you," wane blue eyes searched her mother's face, "But you look tired. Have you been working her too hard, Lord Stark, with Winter coming?" her grandfather turned to address her Father, his great scraggly red brow furrowed.

"No more then I worked myself, Lord Hoster."

Her grandfather indeed took in her father's exhausted appearance and made an irritating hum in the back of his throat.

"You look as old as me. This Winter has you Northerners scared witless, I see."

Her father gave a grim nod, ignoring the jest, to be honest.

"More than you can know Lord Hoster. More than you can know."

Her grandfather searched her father's face for a moment before he gave a careful nod.

"We will do our best to sort this out, Ned. If you say Winter will be bad, it will be bad. You are not known for theatrics nor duplicity. The Riverlands supports you- within reason of course."

"Of course, Lord Hoster."

"Now. I have learned all you names good and proper because of your lengthy introductions, now I want my grandchildren to come properly greet their grandfather."

Jon stepped back, standing with Brienne and Theon as they stepped forward to embrace and greet their grandfather properly. Sansa herself gave him a careful kiss on the cheek, wondering at the type of man willing to trick his own daughter into drinking moon tea for the sake of personal honor. She also wonders if he had let her Aunt Lysa marry Petyr the moment she had become with child, how the world would have changed in response… Sansa knew for certain that Petyr would have crawled his way up anyway, though perhaps Aunt Lysa's life would have ended at a much sooner point.

 _I must do something about Petry. His ambition will never end, and with his obsession with Mother, he will always try to drag the North into the South. But who can I trust to kill him? Brienne would never leave me and it would pain her to play assassin..._

"You look much like your Mother did, at your age, little Sansa," said Hoster, warmly, as she pulled back from his grandfatherly embrace.

Sansa gave a careful smile.

"Than I have much to look forward to, Grandfather if I look anything like Mother does."

He gave a warm smile in return.

"That you do. She looks much more like a trout, then a wolf," he called to her mother with obvious approval, "Though her playing with swords- She and her sister are true ladies, Cat, you should cease to indulge them on such a whim. They'll never get married with a sword on their belts!"

Arya snorted.

"I am _not_ a Lady. Besides, water-dancing is _fun,_ right Sansa?" protested her sister, before turning to her.

Her eyes were warm but pleaded acceptance. Sansa sought to return it with a large smile and by placing a hand on her sister's arm.

"It would be more fun if I could get to be half as good as you, Arya."

Arya beamed, almost glowed at the compliment.

"It is perfectly normal for a lady to have a sword," said Robb with a sniff, "I ask you to tell Lady Mormont to leave her sword down, and see what reaction you get."

Her grandfather sighed.

"I am telling you, a Lady of the South does not play with swords."

"Well, Sansa and Arya are of the North," countered her father, with a strain in his voice, "And I was the one that chose for the girls to learn."

Her grandfather stared at her father.

"I see. Well, you will invite interesting good-sons, then. Those who don't care for their Lady's bad habits."

"Well, I am _never_ getting married," declared Arya with a stomp of her foot, "Boys are stupid."

At that, Sansa could only laugh as her Mother gave a slight indignant noise in the back of her throat.

"May we not talk of marriage for my children? Sansa and Arya are barely six and ten together, and it is much too soon for either of them."

Her grandfather gave a sympathetic hum.

"Cat was barely three and ten namedays when I promised her to Brandon. I understand your reluctance Ned, but such things come eventually. Children grow. Children leave home. Especially the daughters."

Sansa had begun to learn her father's expressions in the passing moons. Before, her father had always seemed so mysterious to her. So far removed from what she could understand. But with the perspective of grief, and the way she had learned to observe people in the Royal Court, and even coming to be so attuned to Jon who was so much like Father- well. Sansa saw something of pain and raw determination cross her father's features.

"Not my children. Not soon."

Before, as a Summer child, such words have filled Sansa with dread and resentment of being trapped in the North. As the woman who died in Winter-

Sansa felt such a lightness.

 _Father will let me choose… Let me_ _ **stay**_ _if I so chose it._

And Sansa had never loved her Father more.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Welp. I told you I was almost done with this chapter. I would have posted this yesterday, but my internet has been really wonky lately and I don't have access to the Doc Manager on the mobile version of fanfiction, which is where I do most of my editing(thank you Grammarly). The Tyrells... The Tyrells I have mixed feelings for. I don't think their bad people, but they are very ready to throw anyone underneath the bus the second it seems to get ugly. Personally, I like their characters but in real life, I would try to avoid them. They are really back stabby, and they do so with smiles on their faces. They don't have evil or ill intentions, but their plans are made with 'at all cost mentality'. And as a lovely reader pointed out, their plans rarely actually are fulfilled.**

 **Sansa I think is much more forgiving than she tries to portray herself, and would forgive their future actions as stuff that wasn't made as a personal act on the Tyrells part(Petyr on the other hand, wooh, totally personal) but rather just opportunistic. She doesn't hold a grudge against them(she saving that for the Lannisters and Petyr) but that doesn't mean she trusts them to any degree. She is cautious right now, and just trying to get a feel for what they want with the North, and how she can make them drop or divert those plans if they are too harmful and how to have the North use the Reach to their best advantage. They are the largest produce producer in Westeros, so that's a must for stockpiling, and she rather has the Reach on their side than not, even if she wants generally** _nothing_ **to do with the South if she can help it. It's just a necessary evil for her.**

 **The next chapter, _Flying,_ is nearly done too (79%), but not nearly as long as this chapter. Expect that sometime next week as well, before the chapter after that will be more or less be posted in my usual time frame, which is infrequent. **


	16. Flying

_Flying_

" _It's only when you're flying above it that you realize how incredible the Earth really is," Philippe Perrin._

Tommen Baratheon, once first of his name, remembers horror.

He remembers on a horror so deep, so strong that it had crawled from the pit of his stomach until it had made its way to his throat, a thick, silencing thing that had coated in his mouth with the foulest taste. He remembers desperation in his heart as well- A desperation that had made it gallop against his breast bone in a frantic drum-beat. His hands, desperate, frantic, clawing at the rubble, of the still-smoldering remains of the Great Sept. His hands had quickly gone red and raw, blistering and cutting, but Tommen had hardly noticed. Only pushed more rock, only screamed orders more fiercely at the men and woman who were trying to find survivors.

He remembers _Mother_ \- golden, gilded thing that she had been, dressed in a fine dress of the darkest velvet, a veil long and dramatic, Myrish lace so fine and delicately spun it appeared to made of spiderwebs. And he remembers as she descended down from her litter, the sway of her full hips, the way her golden hair, had been perfectly made within her golden crown, the perfect clasp of her small hands in front of her, sparkling with onyxes and deep black opals, glittering as rainbows in in the hellish, greenish glow of the remaining wildfire.

The look in her eyes, vivid green as they were, had not been of sorrow.

Had not been the horror at the loss of the woman she claimed as her good-daughter.

No.

It had been _pleased. It had been glittering in victory and triumph of a fallen foe. But she had been_ _ **mine**_ _. She had been my_ _Margaery_ _, my wife._

He still wakes, shaking, at the remembrance of the beautiful woman that had been his queen, whose body had been warm and true beside him, and thought however many older she had been, had taken the mind to _love_ him in the last few years of their lives. He remembers the way she had reached for him in odd moments, touched his golden blond curls in fondness, or gave a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, sweet and perfect and _her._ And he remembers as he saw his mother, standing as she was, the barely concealed smile in her perfect show of mourning, that she had never appeared so like Joffrey to him in that moment.

" _Do not despair, sweet King," his mother had all but cooed, "We shall find the little Queen. We must have faith that not all is lost, dear son. We will search for our Queen, do not despair, son of mine."_

 _Her eyes laughed even as tears fell from them._

 _His heart broke._

 _On return to the Red Keep, hours later, hands aching and split and bruised, with not even the remains of his wife to lay to rest, he was sitting in his painfully large bedroom, in soot-stained clothes. He saw bits of her in their shared rooms: the carelessly thrown robe across his side of the bed, the ruby jeweled pins he had gifted her for her last nameday past, the remains of her hair in her fine brush, the scent of roses about the room, from her bath, her fine oil perfume._ _Margaery_ _always smelt of roses, fine, pure and soft. She was warm and sweet, and kind. Even-tempered in ways his mother was not, and she never lost patience with him and had even forgiven him when he had not declared her innocent after that whole affair with the disgraceful knight that had claimed to bed her._

" _ **The world is full of horrors, Tommen. You can fight them, or laugh at them, or look without seeing ... go away inside,"**_ _the voice of his Uncle- if that was_ _ **what**_ _he really was- echoed in his head._

 _He had not believed him._

 _But he used his words, after all, looked without seeing. Looked without seeing to see the monster his mother was. Just as Joffery had been._ _ **Now my wife is dead. If I had looked from the beginning I would have kept her away from**_ ** _Margaery_ _._** _Absently, Tommen rises, striding to his wife's vanity. His face, he notes, is just as soot-stained as his doublet, and he mourns the fact that he had finally had been losing remains of his childish fat about his face, and that just recently he had lost any distance between him and his wife, had_ _ **finally**_ _reached her height._

 _But he pushes that aside, and carefully removes a few strands of her hair from her brush, brown, the color of chestnuts, and smooth in his hands._ _ **Like warm silk, I would slowly remove your pins and tame the mane of his rose held atop her head.**_ _He raises it to his lips, kisses the strands, before he leaves the room, through the secret door they had discovered together. He walks the secret passages they had found the time to explore together in the dark of night, back when he was too young for the relationship between man and wife, just married to a woman so much older than him._

 _He remembers how they had laughed, and how bright and shinning her face had been, so far above him, and when he just began to understand what it meant to want to reach up and kiss her laughing, red mouth._

 _He appears in his mother's rooms, careful of being quiet. He realizes he needn't bother to be quiet, eyeing the two bodies in bed, the strong smell of wine in the air, and how tangled his mother is with some blond west-lander, looking spent. Vaguely, Tommen thinks he looks of Uncle Jaime. Not quite, the man much too_ _ **young**_ _but similar enough in his face, in the blond hair. He recognizes him as a singer newly arrived in court, a little older than himself. He walks quietly as a mouse, either way. He reaches his mother's vanity, where he knows she will find it. He removes his crown, careful of the pins as he removes it, and sets it among jewels and cosmetics. It shines in the waning light of the nearly spent candles. It is a handsome thing of roaring lions, twined thorns and antlers of a proud stag. It glitters gold and black, a show of his 'father's' House._

 _It had always felt too heavy for him, too uncomfortable on his brow._

 _ **Now I gift it back to you, MOTHER, you who fought so hard to keep it upon my head.**_

 _He turns to the couple on the bed. He wishes… Wishes for the sword at his side. He thinks of it. How Widow's Wail would run red with their blood. How it would coat white sheets in it. How_ _ **right it would be to kill her, justice-**_

" _ **A King is best measured by not the Justice he gives," a voice sweet and warm in his mind, "But instead the Mercy he gives as well, my love."**_

 _A sob is pressed deep back into his throat and it only escapes him as the faintest whine that has his mother shifting slightly around the boy she keeps._ _ **Mercy. Mercy**_ ** _Margaery_** _ **… By the Seven why had you been so kind?**_ _He leaves his mother and her lover be, and walks to the tallest tower with a balcony in the Keep. He is out of breath, the remains of his childhood of being overweight, but he does not care. He looks out, beyond the balcony, noting, faintly, that the sun has taken longer and longer to rise each day. It has yet to rise in nearly seven and ten moons turn._

 _Winter was truly upon them, as the Stark House's words said, it has come._ _ **Kind Sansa Stark, who played with me and my cats, who knew what it was like to be hurt by Joffrey... Queen in the North.**_ _Margery had become so quiet at the Raven from the North had come, her pale hands clutching at the armrests of her chair, her eyes blinking rapidly at the declaration- at the plea for help from the horror that would call from them all._ _Mother had flown into a rage and screamed herself hoarse because Uncle Jaime's hand had written the letter on behalf of the Queen he had sworn himself too, slightly wobbly but legable enough. The faint tales he heared from whispering people of the court, of what has been happening North of the Neck, of Monsters of Ice and Snow, of how long the Night has been-_

 _ **None of it matters. I don't care.**_

 _Tommen climbs onto the ledge._

 _His boots grow closer and closer to the edge. His leg, hovering over the enormous height bellow before he lifts his wife's strands of hair to his lips once again. He steps forward, beyond the ledge._

 _And for a few moments, its as if he's_ _ **flying.**_

 _The wind whips at his hair, long and carefully cut curls, just as short as his wife liked it. His eyes water against the course of surging air passing him… But Tommen feels as if he is_ _ **flying, to his wife, to her warmth and softness. Away from Winter and horror and pain.**_

Tommen, shifts, blinking rapidly, looking over the edge where he remembers he had taken his own life. He vaguely remembers hitting the ground. But not much beyond pain and increasing darkness. He had died laughing in glee at the thought of his Mother's face at seeing the last of her children dead, a gurgle of glee that had drifted from his broken teeth.

"I did not come back to you in the way I expected, sweet rose," he whispers, soft. His voice, high and faintly disturbing to him, as he feels more connected to the voice in his mind, the voice that was on its way to becoming deeper, cracking only slightly at times. How she had teased him for it, in that kind way of hers, how she had done so with a smile on her fair red lips, "Not yet. But I will find you. I will find you and make you my wife again."

The promise is solemn, said to the air, said to the very _gods_ who his wife had so loved.

"Tommen?"

Tommen keeps a hand on the ledge he had flown from. He turns, and there he is, the man that he strongly suspects is his biological father.

"Hello, Uncle Jaime."

Tentatively, the man gives a smile. Tommen sees himself in his face, the way his jaw would strengthen, the way his eyes would narrow with the passage of time. He sees what could have been his own face had aged beyond four and ten. He thinks Margaery would have approved, as she had loved beautiful things.

"You do know that your Lady Mother is beside herself, now that you aren't present at the feast? It is your nameday celebration, after all. The entirety of the castle is being searched."

Tommen frowns.

 _Four name days. Margaery must be two and ten. Mentally, we are much closer, at the very least. With the moons that have gone, I am five and ten now. But I will always be playing catch up to her physically. If I could endure such a thing before, then I can do so again._

"I got tired. It was so loud. And Joffrey was being unkind."

The word, of course, is too small to represent his brother. But what else would a child of four name-days say that was worse about his elder brother, even one as monstrous as Joffrey? If he had been any better a mummer, Tommen would have cried, played to his age. But he was not. He would feel too ridiculous to do such a thing, no matter his appearance. He had been _King,_ after all. As the King of the future, part of him wondered what he should do beyond avoiding his monstrous brother… Joffrey had been a cruel King, and worst, _a fool_ King. Tommen may not have understood such things when he had ascended the Thorne. But he had understood eventually.

 _Will I do what I must to save those I once claimed as my subjects? I gave up the crown. But what will Margaery think of me, if I leave it in the hands of my brother? Will she marry_ _ **him**_ _to be the Queen she so desperately wished to be? And what of Mother? I gave her mercy once. But how long will I be able to stay my hand?_

"Is that so," the amusement in Uncle Jaime's face, it is slight, but genuine as he comes to sit down beside him.

He does so with ill-grace, as he is dressed in full armor, and the plates creak as his legs splay out ridiculously. The only true thing of grace was the way his father carefully brings his white cloak, lifts it so as not to let it touch the ground. Tommen follows suit, sinking to the ground next to him, removing his hand from the ledge he had flown from. He dares to come close, presses against plate and mail as if he has the right to ask for such affection from the man that so desperately kept himself distant. His Father carefully places an arm around Tommen's shoulders.

Tommen had been careful, careful and methodical, in an attempt to have some sort of relationship to the man that he strongly suspects had sired him. He had few good memories of the man the world called his father and all he knows that Robert Baratheon, from inheriting his crown and the crown of the boy he had called his heir, was that he was a fat fool and an ill spender, and the repercussions of his rule had lasted long into Tommen's own. He could not completely blame it on the man, as the practice had been encouraged by the people that had given him ill-council.

 _Just as they had given me before I realized the puppet they wanted for a King. Even Mother._

"Joffrey is ill-mannered and jealous for the attention I receive," he replies, kicking his feet absently. It seemed to be a side-effect of his coming back in time- his body was so full of energy, and it was all he could do to sit still most of the time.

"Oh?"

"He wants the attention on him, always. It's funny, really. He can have attention. I just wish to be left alone."

 _To be left alone as time passes until I can return to my wife. But the world is not so kind to let me sit and wait for such a thing._

"Good place to be alone, all the way up here."

 _That's why I chose to jump from here._

"I know. I try to climb here every morning," he says smartly, _and because I can rid myself of this accursed childhood fat, grown strong and pretty,_ "The sunrises are beautiful."

His father hums.

"Never thought much of sunsets. It occurs every day."

His gaze is far away, and Tommen wonders how often his father _goes away inside_. Had he been a child, he would have missed the fact that his father was a lost, broken thing. _I wonder, did you find peace when you left Mother's side? If you love her as I love_ _Margaery_ _, how could you leave her at all?_ Tommen remembers the distress, the rage his Mother had displayed when his Uncle had escaped in the middle of the night, only a note on his Mother's vanity explaining why or what he was doing. Tommen had not read the note, as his Mother had refused to part with it. But he remembers at times how she would have the same parchment in her hands. She had kept it in the bodice of her gowns, and her expression had always been a dulled sort of rage that would make something cold trail down Tommen's spine.

"I suppose. But the colors seem different every day."

"I will just have to enjoy one with you Prince Tommen."

Tommen smiled.

"I would like that very much, Uncle Jaime."

"I should take you back to your Mother…"

"I rather not."

"She can fret a little longer. The tower has _many_ steps," returned his Uncle, a sly smile appearing on his face.

"Thank you, Uncle." _Father._

"You are most welcome, Nephew."

Hesitantly, almost afraid, his Father reached out a hand to ruffle his messy curls. Tommen allowed the indignity and accepted the rare affection.

* * *

 **SO. Yup. As many of you have guessed from the previous chapter in King's Landing, Tommen remembers.**

 **No big surprise there, I wasn't being very subtle at the hint I dropped lol. SO. We have, Sansa, Brienne and Tommen so far, three out of a total of nine(FINAL NUMBER I SWEAR). Originally I had a total of seven people who remembered the Future-Past, but after examining a couple more characters and assessing where I wanted to direct the story I added three more. Several people will get echoes- moments or emotions that don't quite fit their current life. But they must be around the people who truly remember to get those echoes, and will never have all of their memories or even many of them. While those nine are important to the overall story, the focus will still be mainly to what's happening in Winterfell, because, this is called _The Sweetly Sung Queen,_ after all.**

 **Here's a hint for anyone who wants to guess the people who remember:**

 **They aren't in a high position of power or have much agency on their own.**

 **Sansa is not an exception to this rule, she simply deferred to those who do have power, she only has their trust as a power to change the fate of Westeros. Tommen, as stated before, is barely four and an overlooked second Prince. Brienne... Well, Brienne is Brienne, she's from a relatively minor house and isn't in a place to do much as political power.**

 **As stated in Flowers, I have very mixed feelings about the Tyrells, but this is from Tommen's POV, so he is a little biased towards his wife. That is done on purpose, as I imagined from what we get in canon that Tommen did not have a very nice childhood, and was overly attached to anyone who showed him a semblance of affection. Its also implied that Joffrey did things to Tommen. Not to mention he was only fifteen when he killed himself, so that's an unstable ball of hormones and trauma. As to him doing anything To Cersei or Joffrey...** **He's fifteen-year-old stuck in a four-year-old body. He can't really... Do much. He's more of waiting and seeing type because of his physical limitations. What he will do in the future is in the future, but more or less he is just waiting and seeing to see what must be done in order to get the one thing he really wants- his wife. He is Jaime's son after all, and he will give anything for her.**


	17. AUTHOR'S NOTE, please read!

**Okay, I know I haven't updated this in a long time, and for that, I want to apologize. I am one of those's writers who hate posting a whole chapter as an author's note, but I felt as if I had no choice. As of now, this story, and the majority of my stories for that matter are under major reconstruction. I feel I need to give reassurances to all those who favorited, followed or reviewed this that it won't be left behind. To be honest, I've been debating which stories to take down on my profile, a purge if you will of all the fanfictions I know I won't be updating. I have a bad habit of uploading something as soon as I finish it, and I think it really shows in some of these earlier chapters. I really think I am a better writer now, and I wish to extend that to all my fanfictions that I want to finish. So, yes this story is going to be edited and revamped! When I finish is really unknown at this point, as I am pretty much redoing most if not all of my stories at this point. The list of those fanfictions, in no particular order, is:**

 _ **Blooming Again,**_ _ **Coming Home,**_ _ **The Little Stark,**_ _ **Eventide,**_ _ **The Great Mouse Detective 2,**_ _ **Lion-Heart,**_ _ **The Sweetly Sung Queen,**_ _ **Broken Seams,**_ _ **Will of a Flower, Will of a Spiral,**_ _ **Rebel, Rebel,**_ _ **Shades of Blue,**_ _ **The Language of Flowers,**_ ** _She Is But The Wind,_** _ **Benthic,**_ _ **In Which,**_ _ **Allies.**_

 **For the most part, I won't be publishing new chapters for my fanfictions, expect for these fanfictions: _The Sweetly Sung Queen, Lion-Heart, She is But the Wind, & Coming Home. _As soon as I upload a new chapter, or I finish all of my edits, I will be deleting this chapter from this story. Any questions, feel free to PM me, and I thank you all for your patience.**

 **~Happy Reading,**

 **Moon Witch '96**


	18. Weeds

_Weeds_

" _Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them," A. A. Milne._

Willas Tyrell found Winterfell, despite its rather dire reputation South of the Neck, to be… Grand. It is not beautiful, exactly. Willas was an honest sort of man and if asked, he could not say that Winterfell escaped its reputation completely. Willas could see how such a place would hold little appeal for many of his fellow Southerners. It was not quite comely, too dark, too, well, _stark_ against the landscape. As if it stood in _**defiance**_ of the moors and hills of the North, of the wood that surrounded it. Of the cold that seeped into your bones and refused to remove itself from you unless you sought shelter in the warm walls of the Keep. _Fantastically designed, ingenious the pipes that fill the walls with hot spring water. If only they would let me see the designs of the castle, if just to admire the engineering. Never mind the advantage of learning the defenses of the Keep._ It was a dark, imposing thing that spoke of independence, of solitude, ingenuity in adversity, and unbreakable strength.

There was something to be admired in those things.

High Garden, of course, is something of its direct opposite, open, airy and _beautifully fair_ that compliments the flat plains and lush of the Reach. High Garden invited you with its open pavilions, with its greenery and rolling waves of grain. High Garden was a luxurious tangled Keep that was splendent and comfortable. It said home to Willas- it was comfortable and beautiful. But there is something to be said of Winterfell's tall, firm walls, the warmth in it. Winterfell is a strong place, a strong presence and its people are no different. As he entered the Great Hall with his family, Willas found himself watching how the bannermen react to Lord Stark, the admiration and respect that is plain to see. There is true deference to him, even from the bannermen that are said to have a traditional animosity against the Starks. That is a feat that took a singular type of man.

Ned Stark is said to be an honorable man- a just man- in Willas's experience such a man is singular indeed.

Part of Willas, as always, found himself to be cynical of the existence of such a man, especially when it is a man with such a remarkable reputation. _What dark secrets do you squirrel away, Lord Stark?_ But from his initial observation, Willas can say that Lord Stark is living up to his reputation of being a good man, if grim and taciturn.

With only one blight on his honor.

Willas sat down in the Great Hall of Winterfell with the usual exaggeration of his permanent ailment. It was a mummer's farce he had employed firstly to achieve added sympathy from his more traditionally chivalry loving father, as Willas had _hated_ jousts and had little patience for them and wished to excuse himself from them for whatever time the injury would allow him. Later, during his horrifying realization of how _permanent_ the injury that would require him to limp for the rest of his life, and require a special brace to prevent his muscles from withering away, his Grandmother had encouraged him to continue his exaggeration. Slyly paying the Castle's Maester to express the severity of the injury loudly and to anyone who could hear.

" _Grandmother, I do not understand… Why have you told the maester to tell father that I will never walk unaided again?"_

 _Grandmother Olenna gave a soft smile that was a contrast to the sharpness in her shrewd eyes._

" _As a great heir, most men will look at you with anger, with envy. As a Lord, people will constantly suspect you. As a Tyrell, it will be worse. A man at the foot of a jape will draw less suspicion."_

 _Willas understood with a swiftness that often made his mother proud, and confused his father and delighted his grandmother._

" _Will it not lower our reputation to have a cripple for an heir?" his voice was not overtly hurt, but only curious. Despite his own apprehension over the matter, Willas had resigned himself to walking with a slight limp and already had ideas for a discrete brace to be hardly visible beneath his trousers._

 _His injury would be fairly minimal and if he trained both horse and his upper muscles enough, he would ride in a bout again, fairly easily. It would please his father if anything. Grandmother snorted, as was her wont and gave him another smile. This was not sweet, but pure sharpness that became the woman he heard call the Queen of Thorns._

" _My dear grandson, your offish father has a love of watching grown,_ _ **trained**_ _men prance about in these bouts, chasing the old glory of reckless boys trying to lance one another. Since he is now too fat to ride him in them himself, he has thrown you into them in his stead, with Garlen soon to follow. I know you to be better than the whole ridiculous, pompous affair."_

" _You did not answer my question, grandmother."_

 _His grandmother gave a sharp laugh._

" _But I have."_

 _Willas looked at her, brows furrowed, puzzling through her words for a moment. Before he understood._

" _Better to take a dip in our reputation, ease suspicion in my future actions and avoid participation in the Tourneys I abhor and remind father of my injury for the sake of Garlen's future participation."_

 _Approval shone in shrewd eyes and despite the dour turn of his physical health, Willas allowed pride to enter his breast at the approval from his Grandmother._

" _If only your father had half your intelligence as a child, sweetling"_

The true relief of not being on his leg was somewhat minimal. Present, but minimal. As Willas sat, he noted that the Snow boy is near a replica of his Lord Father. Jon Snow, a young boy of three and ten that has inherited the House looks, something Willas had long observed in his cousins who claimed the name Flower. Though the difference in their appearance is made evident of the boy's more delicate nose, fuller lips _his mother certainly was a handsome woman if her son was set to be so pretty,_ and the wild curls that the boy does not bother to tame. _A Northern trait, I see, to not groom yourself._ The heir, next to Snow is just as unkempt with his auburn hair, and unlike the Snow boy is slumped over the table, rubbing his eyes in tiredness.

Willas felt his lips quirk in sympathy, as he knew the boys had lessons before this meeting, and it was frightfully early already. Margaery had looked at the hour settled for the meeting and been fairly horrified, whilst Garlan had to adjust his own training time to be able to attend. He had mentioned, earlier, that both the elder Stark boys and the Greyjoy hostage had been already within the training grounds when he had arrived and had been finishing up by the time Garlan was mid-way through his own paces. The standing observation from his knightly brother from his discreet eavesdropping was the fact that every morning, the Stark Household held a daily meeting, no matter how early other matters were set on the agenda for the House. One that even the Greyjoy hostage was not privy to as he had stayed behind to perform duties with the Master at Arms. Neither had their Maester, if Garlen's quick visit to his surgery for a muscle paste was any indication. The fact that every member of the Household looked fairly alert in comparison to the younger Starks made Willas suspect that it was a family-only affair, _most curious_.

He watched intently and is surprised as Robb Stark sat straighter, setting his jaw as another comes to the great table. Sansa Stark walked carefully, he noted, walked carefully and with an unhurried grace that he found interesting to see in someone so young. It is a difference in how his own sister walked, her endless bouncing energy that Willas always found himself smiling at. She is actually well-groomed a rarity in the North for even the Ladies if Lady Mormont and her daughters are any indications. Her hair is in neat, if plain braids that hold half of her hair out of her face, whilst the rest is an auburn river that fell beyond her shoulders. She sat delicately, between her brothers, and gave them a nod. Both boys turned to her, orbiting her like moths drawn to a candle flame. An easy affection is apparent in them, and Willas is surprised by the usually so restrained Northerners by the way the young girl is bestowed with a kiss on her cheek by both her brothers. The way a small smile bloomed on her face hinted on how she will surpass her mother's beauty and Willas thought of the similar fate that would befall his own sister.

The Stark heir and the Snow inclined their heads and speak, quietly, and the girl listened with a few delicate nods and murmured words in return. Then Lord Stark turned to his daughter, and Willas found it very _interesting_ to see how the great Lord's shoulders relaxed at the sight. _You are beloved, I see. Just as Margergy is to us._ He wondered, with sympathy, if such a treatment and the sword lessons that both girls attend is a byproduct of the fate of Lord Stark's sister as his Grandmother had lamented the first night in the Keep, in the privacy of their given rooms.

Willas remembered little of Lady Lyanna, a combination of his young age and having paid her little mind in the Tourney of Harnelhel himself. Mostly besotted by the mysterious Knight of the Laughing Tree and the different horses. At least until the gallant Prince had trotted by on his magnificent black stallion and placed a crown of blue winter roses upon her head. He remembered thinking she had been pretty in a plain way, not the type of Lady he would have chosen, but that she had turned beautiful when she blushed under the Prince's careful consideration and given him a smile that had been so brilliant it had taken his breath away, young as he had been.

Lady Sansa, sensing his gaze, or perhaps having a habit of watching a room, turned to him. Despite her youth, Lady Sansa did not have an expressive nature, something he had first noticed upon her small smiles to his sister and her careful dutiful looks to her parents. She simply returned his stare with a politely quirked brow, before she turned away at the appearance of her mother. Lady Catelyn too, glanced towards her daughter and gave her a beatific smile that Willas could not help but find fetching. She was a great beauty, Catelyn Tully of the House Stark, and she remained so after giving birth to five children was a feat in itself.

"She would be a good match," mentioned his sister, simply, bringing his attention to the table around him.

He found it amusing and telling that the bannermen of Lord Stark had made the effort to leave left a large space between them and his party. The seats next to his party being empty by two, even though space was limited. But it at least it gave them some semblance of privacy if they spoke quietly. Especially if all the Northerners were inclined to be so… Boisterous in the morning.

"Oh, Lady Margaery?" he said, even more amused.

She let out her cheeks, puffed them in a most childish manner before she remembered herself and sat primly straight and gave him a good imitation of their Grandmother's arched brows.

"Sansa Stark. She would be a good match. She's going to be a pretty one."

Sansa Stark would be a good match, politically speaking, giving the Reach ties to the North, and looking so much like her mother, she would no doubt grow to be one of the greatest beauties in the Seven Kingdoms. But the ten and then some year age gap made him more than uncomfortable. Not to mention, that despite being the heir to Highgarden and being in need of marriage and a child of his own, Willas felt little to no remorse that Garlan was set to beat him in that regard.

"She is much too young," he tweaked Maergery's nose and chuckled at the huff she gave at the gesture.

"She's only a little younger than me."

"Exactly," said their Grandmother in a sharp voice, raising a brow at her, "And you only wish to take her back to the Reach with us for a playmate, not for your brother."

Margaery blushed a pretty pink, lifting her nose in the air. She gave a delicate sniff.

"She could teach me how to use a sword, and I can teach her how to use a bow. And to properly falcon- But she cannot be here. She has so little time. You have to _rescue_ her Willas."

It is so painfully evident at times, how young his sister is. To be so busy as at such a young age would seem horrible to any young child, but to Willas it spoke of a trust given to all of the Stark children to do their house proud. In the wake of the coming Winter, he believed it to be prudent to demand such. He knew after this visit, his Grandmother would demand more of himself, Garlen, Margaery and Loras for the sake of House Tyrell. Willas even suspected his youngest brother would be demanded from his squireship before earning his Knighthood, or Lord Renly would be 'pursued' to expedite his Knighthood to bring Loras home. Considering, how Loras's ravens had overtones of affection for the Stormlord, Willas also suspected that his younger brother would turn the demand into a request to stay outside the Reach for the sake of the House. He made a mental note to send his brother a Raven, to make his position with Lord Renly unshakably advantageous.

A rose in love bloomed too quickly and wilted too swiftly, or so said his grandmother. But from his own observation, Willas had long suspected that a rose in love bloomed, quickly, but also had the sharpest, most _potent_ thorns.

"We didn't come to the North for a bride, little rose, but to better our relations in trade. You are here to learn on these terms, not to play."

Margaery sighed, unhappily, before she gave a nod.

"I'll just have to steal her away then, as much as I can," she said, with relish, her brown eyes shining. Margaery was obviously fond of Lady Sansa for however little they had interacted with each other.

Willas suspected his younger sister coveted the time of someone who had been denied to her, and the pretty look of the young girl to hang on her arm. His sister was just now making her own first inner-circle and all that entitled. Sansa Stark was no doubt a young girl's ideal companion in that regard. Exotic with her queer skill, beautiful and had unique customs of her own to contrast that of the Reach. A pretty, shiny new toy to flaunt to the rest of the cousins that constantly fought for a place against the only daughter of the Head Family of Tyrell. The fact that she was strangely stoic did not deter his talkative sister. He made a mental note to tell his sister that kidnapping the eldest girl of a fellow Lord was not the best of action.

Especially the daughter of _this_ lord _._

"You do that little rose, and tell me what horrible things her family forces her to do, won't you?" crooned his Grandmother.

Willas gave her an arched brow, but her grandmother only snorted at his unease at his grandmother so blatantly using her to spy on the inner workings of House Stark. But Margaery, of course, had been trained to do so since she was very small, and had always had a knack for ferreting out secrets. If House Stark had any, which Willas sincerely doubted after a few days of observation, Margaery would be the one to find them.

For himself, despite his natural distrust, Willas found that the missive sent out by House Stark over the coming Winter to be mathematically sound. Willas had little faith in people, but he found great trust in numbers and history. The numbers and history told him that _winter_ was coming, and it would be a frightfully long one to match the fair summer they had been dealt. His father's speculation of House Stark gearing up for a rebellion had seemed plausible enough if you dismissed the coming Winter and considered the actions of most men. But by Lord Stark and by the grim certainty displayed by all of the Northerners, Willas was now half ready to dismiss any notion of rebellion from the North.

 _More's the pity. I have no love for the reckless King Robert and even less for his foolish and boisterous son. The few interactions between us were enough to last me a lifetime, young as he is, the thing that child needs the most is to be taken over the knee. And then there was the business with that cat..._

"Maybe you should find yourself a bride," said Garlan with a sly grin, "You have lost to me on that race, brother."

Willas gave his brother a chuckle.

"I am a poor runner, Garlan, but I never entered the race to begin with. I have no urge to wed."

Garlan, two years his junior, shook his head.

"You are the future Lord of High Garden," he began, and the words _you are acting Lord whilst father fitters away at schemes_ was left unsaid, "You must think of the son that will inherit that title from you."

Willas shook his head, giving his brother an easy smile.

"You are my heir, for now, Ser Garlan the Gallant."

"But not for long, Willas, you must give me a great-grandchild to bounce on my knee," said his grandmother with a firm stare, "Though perhaps you should not rob the cradle of Lord Stark's quite yet. His sword Ice is so frightfully broad and long."

Willas gave her an appeasing smile. But wisely, did not say another word. He knew his duty, he would marry some woman that would bring good tidings to House Tyrell, get a child on her, and so on and so forth. It was the pace of history, but with Garlan and Loras next in line after him, he technically had some excuse not to marry whatever woman was found for him. His father had not pressed him, unlike his Grandmother and Mother both, so Willas found he could skirt on that responsibility for a while yet.

 _Perhaps a few more years, even,_ he thought, faintly as Sansa Stark posed a quill readily above the parchment.

As if that was a signal in a mummers play, all the Lords ceased their talk and made fairly attentive looks toward Ned Stark in quiet anticipation and endless regard. Waiting, hand reaching for his own quill and parchment, Willas listened carefully.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **The author hasn't edited earlier chapters yet what?**

 ***Cough Cough***

 **Welp. I did say I would continue to update some of my stories in the interim. Honestly, the reason I haven't worked on the earlier chapters of this fic because I'm kind stuck on another story, because in my genius *sarcasm* I made the executive decision to focus on my longest fic called _Blooming Again_ that has an average word count per chapter of 10,000 words. I also have a lot of job hunting to do at the moment because *dunt dunt ta dun* I just gained my Bachelor... I have a part-time job that I'm hoping to make more permanent but that most come with time, I'm mostly resume building at the moment. That takes up a lot of my time flitting from job to job.**

 **Also. Depression. That's a thing. And the dread of a rudderless existence without the strict structure of collage to guide me.**

 **Life is fun.**

 **I'm mostly joking. Go to school, earn degrees, I'm getting paid _minimally_ 20 dollars an hour at any job and I'm just starting out a few months after graduation. That sure beats working at a fast-food restaurant for 7.25 an hour. Go forth. Educate yourself.**

 **Where was I? Oh right, fanfiction. *Gets off of soapbox*. Honestly, Willas is a sort of fun character that was written out of the show and has never appeared in the books, at least, not beyond a mention of people related to him. I sort took the basic framework of what people have said about him, tried to incorporate the fact that he is a favorite of the Queen of Thorns and tried to imagine what sort of man would come from that. Not to mention taking his siblings into account. Also. Winter Thorns in Highgarden was some inspiration for him as well, if less playful than that version of Willas.**

 **~Happy Reading,**

 **Moon Witch'96**


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